Angel Of Zero
by emperorunknown123
Summary: A failure of a mage wishes for a divine, majestic summon. She called and she did not expect to find an angel. (semi-permanent hiatus)
1. Chapter 1: The Fall

**AN: This is my first ever Fanfic for the FOZ, my first story and my first crossover. Also english is not my best language and I hope you can forgive the lack of grammar and punctuation.  
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**This story may or may not be continued, depending on many things. But mainly, I'm using this to practice English. I also may not do the character justice, if so consider it a AU since I last saw this show many years ago.  
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**Please Review. It helps me learn.**

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"You are not welcome here, beast!" Hamael boomed, his voice laced with anger, hatred and loathing.

An Encarmine axe bit into a Tyranid hormagaunt, cleaving into its head. Alien ichor sizzled and disintegrated on the power field as Its lifeless body fell to the stained plains of an alien plain; joining the multitude of deceased tyranid bodies, wrecks of Imperial vehicles and the shredded remains of their occupants.

"By his blood. From his blood. In the name of the Emperor and the Primarch Sangunius. _We_ defy you. In the name of the Imperium. _We _will defy you."

A golden boot stomped on the twitching skull and then his other foot kicked out like a propelled missile. It crunched into the chest cavity of a leaping termagant; knocking it back into the swarm to get ripped apart by its crazed brethren. The beasts paid no heed to it. So single-minded they were in their goal to eviscerate and devour.

The golden giant fired his inferno pistol with a squeeze of his finger, incinerating the nearest creatures. The swarm smashed past the ashes. With Pointed teeth, scythed talons and inhuman appendages reaching out to rend.

Then he jumped upwards with a roar.

Hamael soared over the chittering swarm on a plume of fire. Alien projectiles fired from weapon limbs and symbiotic bio-creatures followed after him: gnashing worms with sharp teeth, glowing balls of dripping bio-acid and quills coated in potent toxins. Flying gargoyles and other aerial beasts flew in mobs, moving to intercept and use their own flesh as rams or swung large talons.

None found purchase or blocked his path.

The winged jump pack propelled ever skywards. The incensed machine-spirit of the inferno pistol burnt with fury and fire, setting flying forms plummeting like falling comets.

The broad wings behind him, though motionless in the wind, made him like an angel of legend to the surviving mortals below. Light from the three suns reflecting off the golden armour, forming a sheen of an aura, inspiring those who viewed it with steeled resolve and renewed tenacity.

Far below the aerial fight, a battle was being fought between the endless xenos and the defiant thousand. A motley gathering of shattered PDF and guard assets; untrained armed civilians and hardened criminals; and a shattered squad of tactical marines. All assembled together as a hastily planned convoy to a way offworld.

It did not need to be said that the chances of rescue were now non-existent. The horde hemming them in and squeezing them dry like a citrus fruit.

Though instead of panicked fear, which Hamael had half-expected. Only a gesture of Imperial pride stood in place. The will to spite and fight against their devourer, to shatter its teeth. And it was a glorious sight to behold from above: volley upon volley of las and bolt rounds, explosives and plasma, forming an unceasing wall of firepower and stubbornness.

However he was an angel that was dying, Hamael thought.

Once immaculate armour was riddled with rents and tears, revealing sparking wires and freshly scabbed-over flesh. The white wings scarred with battle-damage from numerous battles. Silent alarms hymed out in his helm, alerting to the already abysmal reserves of power and compromised systems that kept his servos. And his blood coursed with a myriad of Tyranid toxins, slowing him down as his Betchers Gland resisted with ever-diminishing effect.

"I am Brother Hamael of the Blood Angels, of the Sanguinary guard, and I seek a beautiful death in _his_ name." He roared out defiantly as gravity pushed him back downwards into the seething mass.

His frame smashed into a group of gaunts, landing among them like an exploding mortar; scattering them and mashing them underneath his bulk. His axe sung its death song into the stunned foe and sent limbs, viscera and broken forms skywards.

The axe was swung in a maelstrom of blows, a dance of death towards death, and Hamael moved unimpeded deeper into the swarm. An art form honed to perfection after centuries of practice and experience brought to full bear. Every blow was a death strike, hewing bodies on a molecular level. Every melta shot immolated inhuman forms to ashy mist. His jump pack flared to life, jinking him around the frenzied mob and lethal strikes in a way that belied his stature.

It was beautiful but it was beauty wasted.

Every bio-form brought low, only sent ten more against him. A harbinger of the inevitable numberless tide. The original group of ten had been diminished to just him, the others dragged down with talons or swatted by aerial beasts. Their golden frames forever covered by alien limbs and maws. Already the human mortals, still fighting, now number in the scant dozens. They gathered atop broken vehicle hulls, forming small islands of resistance and were, or will be, drowned out under a tide of bodies.

Brother Hamael knew that the battle was lost. But he shall not go quietly. He sang a death-hymn in an ever-gurgling throat. His vision slowly clouded with a black. Large canines poked out from his mouth. And a primal frenzy began to well within him, to slay and slay until nothing remained.

The blood called to him. It fed on his moment of despair, his frustrations and anger. Images of marines in debased ancient suits of armour replaced tyrannic creatures, alien appendages and hoofs morphing to tainted weapons and iron boots. They charged towards him with garbled speech and animalistic snarls, braying of false gods and blood. Always the blood.

But Hamael pushed back, beating against the Red thirst -the bane and curse of his chapter. His fangs bit into his lips and drew blood, litanies and psalms sung in his head until clarity came back. It was not the time for it, he repeated to himself. The axe bit deep into a maddened marine, but left a nid corpse behind as the image of a long-forgotten nemesis vanished. He did not want to lose himself, not until he found _it. _But he did not need to worry for long.

_It _found him instead.

A hive tyrant on its last leg. The leader of this swarm. Its exoskeleton was marred with deep furrows and pockmarked craters, some old and others freshly made. The scars of old and recent battles. A sole eye glared back with a baleful look, a glimmer of an intelligence beyond human comprehension and recognition. And it bounded towards him, crushing lesser bio-forms beneath its charge. It gave a mighty roar; one that promised death, vengeance and a call for a challenge.

The beast paused midcharge, confusion and alarm dotted its face, before focusing once again in a snarling rage at his foe.

Hamael gave no reply as he soared on wings of fire towards it. Axe raised high and pistol firing at the frenzied monster. He moved towards his eventual, but beautiful, death.

* * *

Louise Françoise le Blanc de La Vallière was… worried. No, she wasn't worried she was anxious so to say. The reason? her turn was soon approaching. The moment that would define her life, and her standing as an actual mage. To be a someone and not a Zero.

She recalled boasting about her eventual summon, that it would be a majestic one. A divine one that would eclipse everyone else's; to force them to view her with awe and respect. And she was praying to Brimir that her boasting would stand. Though with each and every successful summoning would only inflame her prayers with equal desperation.

Especially since Kirche, her rival, had summoned a fire-breathing salamander. Brimir, she hated how Kirche would taunt her on that. That smug playful look on her face when she had succeeded and proceeded to taunt her with that overgrown lizard. Petting it on the head as it snuggled into her.

Not that she was jealous or anything.

Then Tabitha summoned an actual dragon. Which caused Louise to be slightly thankful that Kirche had not managed to summon it. Lest she be even more furious- given that Kirche had looks, height and bountiful… assets.

Lousie swore she'll one up Kirche finally. She'll summon something better than that lizard and show them all. An even bigger dragon, yes, that'll show them all who's the best. And then the mockery would stop. Louise the Zero. Louise the Explosion. Louise the—

"Louise!" A cry shook her from her thoughts and she looked over to the speaker.

"Have you had your turn?" Professor Colbert asked. The other students snickered quietly, while others outright mocked her before they were all silenced with a glare. "Have you gone yet, Louise?

"No, not yet," Louise admitted.

"Then you may proceed, you are the last one," Colbert said motioning to a clear area. The other students backed away a fair distance, clearly wary, but close enough to view whatever the Zero would summon. If she could summon. A few looked rather amused, few being Kirche. Giving a smug look from her position.

Louise stepped towards the clearing, mocking following her with every footstep.

"There's no way she would summon anything." A female voice stated.

"She's just gonna get us all killed." Another whispered.

"The only thing she's good at is blowing up." A chuckle came.

Louise could feel her footsteps grow heavy with worry and fear from every mocking insult, like knives into her esteem- or what was left of it. That they may be correct in their assumptions: That she was good at nothing except blowing up.

"With all your boasting, you should be able to summon something up more amazing than this, right, Louise?" Kirche jeered.

"Well, of course." Louise put it aside for now. Her mind must be clear for the ritual, and she shoved the ball of emotions deep down within her. Her worries may or may not be unfounded.

Now was the time to find out.

"My servant that exists somewhere in this vast universe!" she began. Everyone went silent, eager to see the outcome with entertained faces and confused by her rather _unusual_ sentence. Something that was unorthodox but still amusing as the start for a spell.

"My divine, beautiful, wise, and powerful servant, heed my call! I wish and usurp from the very bottom of my heart, answer my guidance and appear" Louise whisked her hand in a circular motion before whipping it down.

Nothing happened: No explosion, no flash of light, no impending fireball dropping down from the skies. Just a gentle breeze.

"I guess that the zero is still a ze—" Kirche said before cut off. The whole world went boom.

Acrid smoke and dust engulfed the entire area like a storm, throwing everyone into disarray. Cries of confusion and screams rang out, alongside a bestial roar, the bursts of exploding flames and the shaking of the earth. Heavy footsteps and an almost in-human snarl, was followed with a strong metallic scent that hung in the air that caused one to gag.

Louise was thrown to the ground by the sudden burst, her mind shaking from the sudden outburst of noise, and her ears rang with an unceasing ring. Her blurred vision was masked by the lingering dust cloud that pulsed with colours and lights that flashed within; shining with bright flames, bluish tails of light and the glow of sickly green. The outline of a monstrous form towered over her, illuminated for a split second, with long curved talons that swung at something darting around it. A muted roar sounded out and her bones shook. She squinted hard trying to make it out in her incoherent state what it was fighting.

Then she saw it.

A small glimpse but it was enough. A figure that stood far above her, much taller than Kirche, Colbert or even anyone else she had seen, like a giant, and it fought the creature with a magical weapon that trailed a tail of incandescent the cloud. But that was not what got her attention. It was the wings. Or rather the sight of wings.

A shrieking call rang out before a final earth-shaking thud, then it was only silence.

The dust and smoke finally settled. Louise was sitting her expression agape, her uniform singed and dirty from the devastating spell. She looked up in a confused manner to see Professor Colbert aiming a staff in front of her, a look on his face that seemed out of place to the stern teacher she knew. A look that reminded her mother. Turning her head she saw why.

Where there was once a grassy clearing. It now resembled a battlefield, the ground littered with craters and furrows that dug deep into the dirt. The spot where she had aimed her spell now lay an enormous daemonic creature that would've dwarfed a wagon or two, and almost ghastly in sight as it leaked thick purple ichor and gels from open wounds and missing appendages. Its needle-like teeth revealing an eternal grimace as blank, diluted eyes stared back, a large ornate axe bisecting its cranium.

Louise would've continued to stare at the dead monster, her face a mixture of disgust, horror and terror. The urge to hurl from the pungent smell that bit at her nostrils and unleash her breakfast. But it was what slew it that had her attention.

And it was beautiful. Like a piece of art. She did not believe it as her mind cleared of its haziness, almost certain that she was perhaps hallucinating.

A majestic figure stood in all its glory, propped upright by a scythed blade that dug into its chest and out the back. Its golden face was stern with a defiant gaze until she realized it was a mask. So lifelike was it that she had to do a double-take when she noticed the black tubes. The armor was also of an unknown style and badly battle-damaged, but the craftsmanship and detail of it was unmistakable, more of a work of art by master artisans than a means of defence. Large wings of metal jutted out from the oversized box on its back, pure white as snow but marred by damage. And a large tear-drop shaped ruby on its oversized pauldron facing her, almost the size of a child's head, and beneath it was a name written in ancient Romailian -something she picked up with her studies, although sparingly.

"Ha-mae-l," Louise pronounced slowly, stunned by what she was seeing. It took moments before the gravity of the situation hit her. She had successfully summoned something, no, she had summoned two things. A surge of giddyness welt up inside her. And one of them was a divine and majestic familiar that could beat Kirche's stupid lizard any day, for she had summoned an angel of Brimnir. Then just as soon as it arrived, it went away with cold hard reality as she recalled the sharp thing poking from its chest and the lack of movement.

It was dead. Both of them were dead. Both of her summons were dead.

"What happened?" Kirche asked rubbing her head.

"Lou… Louise summoned her familiar, which is…" Someone's voice trailed off before it picked up in surprise and loud shock. "A demon! An angel! Lousie the Zero has killed a demon and an angel!" he screamed out loud.

"The Zero has killed someone?!"

"Oh Brimnir, the smell! I'm feeling sick."

"Someone go and get the other professors! And stay away from the center. Get the medical mages here!" Professor Colbert yelled out, giving out orders and clearing the crowd of nauseated, shocked students away from the macabre sight. Many of whom added their own contributions to the ruined ground as they were herded away by arriving professors, while few stared in muted horror: bodies unwilling to move from the view. It was to his relief that no one had gotten hurt, well, no students. But his relief was short-lived when he saw a certain pink-haired one still sitting below him.

"Louise…" Colbert put his hand on her shoulder, a look of pity on his face. Louise didn't need to ask why, she knew.

"Does.. does this mean I'm getting expelled?" Louise said in shock and tears. Her mind stuck in what was familiar to her, trying to blot out what she was seeing.

Colbert paused for a moment, then only gave a small smile. "No, don't worry about it. This was an unusual occurrence, but I believe that another opportunity can be arranged for you to summon again." he offered assuringly, technically he wasn't supposed to allow this. However, she had succeeded but due to extraordinary circumstances, they had died fighting one another. Though it was nearly unheard of to summon two individuals. A small headache arose within his mind at the thought of how the rumors that she had killed an angel would spread like wildfire. Her life was gonna get much more difficult now -if her life wasn't hard enough already.

A sound distracted him for a moment, like the rasp of metal on metal, and drew his attention back to the two corpses. Colbert watched as the once-still angel grasped the blade and push himself off it, landing on the ground and sending dust up. Its voice deep and powerful like the thrumming of a cannon, "_Fo-forgiveee meee, Emmp—"  
_

Then it went still once more.

An amazed expression was on both of their faces. "He's still alive? He's alive!" Louise screamed gladly.

"Healers! Someone is injured, help the... angel." Colbert announced as he hurriedly ran up to check on the being.


	2. Chapter 2: Revelations

**AN: Hi, and I'm back. I have decided that after reading all the reviews and quite a few Pm's from others here to change part of the story and get rid of Saito. Maybe in the future, I may rewrite this one-shot to see how it would go if I did leave him here.**

**I also decided to write this story on and off, so it isn't technically a one-shot anymore... but it would be on long periods of hiatus due to a lot of work and studying.  
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** Thanks for all the reviews. I will write a response to them at the bottom of the story.  
**

**Please Review. It helps me learn.**

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The Headmaster of the Tristain Academy of Magic, an elderly man named Osmond, or Old Osmond to a few, sat at his desk. A long thick, pointed beard went down to his chest and a pipe poked out; small tufts of smoke blew out with every exhale. It was relaxing to imbibe in his hobby and to recline back into his comfy chair. Especially after recent events and… revelations.

He looked towards Colbert, who sat across from him.

"So, Colby." Osmond teased, hoping to give a bit of lighter moment to the tense atmosphere. "Was the Springtime Familiar Summoning successful?"

"It's Colbert." he replied without pause, long used to the man's antics, and his face was a mixture between joy and anxiousness. "It has gone quite well. However, I have a feeling that you are already aware of what exactly happened? With La Valliere?"

Osmond nodded. He was indeed aware of what happened. It didn't take long for the rumors mills to spin, or rather in this case for them to spin fast enough to propel skywards. Not to mention that he had scryed the whole incident from start to finish as well.

"Yes. I have indeed. Something about an angel and a demon of sorts being summoned, if I recall?" Osmond sat up straighter, deciding to play stupid. Refilling the pipe from a small pouch of dried weeds and lighting it with a flick of a finger, "I was hoping tha—"

"It would be one familiar now, headmaster. Both of them fought and only the angel survived, but barely, and we are currently burying the remains of the other." Colbert shuddered as he recalled the monstrous corpse. And how massive it was compared to him. "My attention has been more preoccupied with examining the surviving familiar in the dungeon."

"Why the dungeon, professor?" Osmonds asked. It was peculiar to treat someone in a dungeon, especially when a fully-stocked medical ward was available for use. Surely, it would've been wiser to send him there.

"Security." Colbert admitted then clarified his answer. "I did not want curious students to disturb his treatment. Though I am unsure if it was successful. He, or it, has fallen into a deep sleep and our healers had to work around his armor for most of it."

"Was the armour not removable?"

"We tried but we discovered that he was bonded to it and we didn't want to risk causing more injuries. But, I have managed to find some things about him." Colbert gave a delighted look.

"So? What have you found out so far about him? You seem rather giddy."

"It's not an angel, I think. An actual angel. His armour, it's incredible, I've never even seen something like this before. It's like an artificial body, a golem shell made of bundled wires and metal plates, judging from what I could see. And there were hoses and vents on the box attached to his back 'wings'." Colbert pulled out a sketching of the angel, and gestured to certain locations. The details of which were incredibly descriptive and complex. However, to Osmond, it reminded him of an insect's exoskeleton to some degree. "I've also haven't detected any enchantments and magic, or any I could recognize or find. So judging by the weight of the suit, It is safe to assume that the bearer would be abnormally strong."

"That is quite interesting." Osmond mused.

"There were some inscriptions written in old Romalian, though I am currently working on a translation. And from what the Healers can tell me, he also functions _differently_ on the inside_." _Colbert tried to find a word for it, but found that he couldn't. The healers had no idea on how to describe it either to his dismay. No terminology or knowledge in their well of experience. Which meant they also lacked ways to treat him effectively, besides working with what they could recognize or extracting broken fragments of armor and bone when they can.

"_Differently_?" Osmond repeated, confused at the usage. "Do you mean that different being because he's something else…"

"He's human and not human, headmaster. From what they can describe, they think he has... two hearts. And he is also healing at an incredibly fast rate even before their treatment. Wounds were scabbing in seconds and shrinking in mere minutes. The more serious and grievous ones took hours."

Osmond took a huff out of his pipe. Placing a hand on his beard and giving a gentle stroke, pondering deep in his thoughts. "What about his weapons? I do hope we have secured them safely away." He asked, worryingly. The image of that oversized axe sticking out from the head of that dead creature, like a unicorn horn, worried him. Even more so, given that it glowed a vivid blue. And that wand bore a partial resemblance to another item in the academies possession.

He couldn't fathom what the consequence might be if they were to lose them. Or how this 'angel' would respond to it.

"We have placed them in the academy vault for safekeeping," Colbert reassured with a nod.

"Ah. That is good." Osmond smiled back. That was one thing off his shoulder. Now he had to deal with the aftermath.

Both of the men continued on in their talks, ignoring the presence of a nearby secretary. Thoughts and plans dancing in her mind. The idea of grabbing an additional prize tempting her. And whether a magical angel weapon would fetch a better price with the Romalians or to an interested individual.

* * *

Hamael could only see darkness, a void of immeasurable distance. He felt nothing but comforting warmth. Pains no longer intruded on him. Gone was the stinging and burning of corrosive venom. Gone was the aches and agony that coursed through him. Gone was the desire for the blood: forced upon him by a millenia old curse.

He felt relaxed now. Relieved almost. He had done his duty and there was no regrets, slaying the beast in the midst of the ancient rage. And then dying as he lived, in full service to the emperor -a great honor for any servant.

Now all was calm and he embraced the warmth, lulling his weary soul to sleep. Peace and calm entered his being and then he slumbered. For how long he did not know, he did not care. But then something nearby: his instincts screamed at him, telling him to look, to see and confront.

Something watching him.

With slow eyes, Hamael could see the darkness had been replaced. Light was now present in its absence. A bright, shining light that beamed down like the desert sun of Baal. And a heavy, comforting presence that pressed down on him, making him small and insignificant. Then he saw the source and was shocked.

It was a man, tall and proud, wreathed and adorned in glorious gold. A pointed halo made of light hovered above his black, luxurious hair, which swayed in the air-less void. Piercing blue eyes, ancient and thrumming with power, looked down and scrutinized him. The pressure mentally peeling away his being, layer by layer, in body and soul.

Then a loving smile grew like that of a doting father to an errant son as the pressure was released. Freeing a breath Hamael was not aware he had taken.

Familiarity hit a stunned Hamael. For he knew who it was, having devoted his entire life to him. And it was everything he imagined _him_ to truly be and more.

"My-my Emp-Emperor," Hamael said in a cracked, dried voice. His two heart would've stood still if he could've felt them. Tears would've fallen down if he could cry. "H-have you come to ta-take me with you? To stand next to your golden throne?"

The Emperor did not say a word, simply continuing to smile. Then to Hamaels horror, he shook his head. A look of pity and sorrow etched across the pristine face. Every movement, every shake and glance sent a wave of disappointment. They stabbed into him with sharpened daggers of shame and anguish. It hurt him worse than any mortal blow.

For it tore his spirit, his being.

"Wh-why? Have I sinned against you, my Emperor. Was I not worthy? Have I wronged you, my lord?" Hamael cried out in breaking desperation, praying inwardly that this was a test of faith. Hoping. "Were my centuries of service in vain? Please, tell me what to do and I shall do so. Let me redeem myself in your eyes. I live only to serve you."

No words were ushered from the golden god of man. Only more sorrow, and the slow shaking of his head to the pleas and cries for redemption.

And despair threatened to sink its jaws into Hamaels soul until a golden gauntlet was placed gently on his shoulder, nearly engulfing his entire arm and shoulder. He braced for the inevitable squeeze, imagining that his entire side would be torn off like an ork to a squig for his impudence.

Instead, something else happened.

Powerful energies surged into him. Where he once felt comfort, it was being replaced with an aching pain: screaming, burning veins in nerves and muscles. The odor of mold, burning pitch and stale air where no smells had once existed. And he gritted his teeth at the sudden discomfort.

His right hand felt as if it thrusted into a fiery forge and he clenched it till it turned white.

Life was returning to his battered mortal vessel, Hamael realized. His two hearts resuming its erratic beat again, as his chest burned and cooled down in slow tempos. Hushed, frantic voices in strange tongues were heard, faint beyond even his augmented hearing. And his throat grew parched with thirst he could not slake.

Fear crept up, no, pounded back into him like an unstoppable force. Was he being banished for all eternity? To be torn from a rest well-deserved? To be unable to join his brothers and his gene-father in death? Perhaps he did deserve this for whichever slight or error had been done.

"You have not erred. Nor have you sinned. There is no need for redemption, for you are saved like those you have saved," the Emperor reassured him, speaking softly in his mind and soothing his panicked mental state. But the words still bore his mighty presence, a compressed storm waiting to be unleashed.

Relief washed over Hamael. And if able, he would kneel in supplication and deference before his liege.

"You have done many things, many a great deed; If able I would welcome you to stand beside me, alongside your fallen brothers, but it is not your time. Not yet. There is something that can be done and only you can do it. A moment of opportunity has arisen from your misfortune and a chance for the Imperium."

Hamael looked back with steeled resolve, ignoring the rising jolts of pain and being unable to bow. Ready to accept whatever was asked of him. His life was not his own to decide, It was the Emperors. And now he needed his assistance and he shall give it willingly. "What is this task you wish of me, my Emperor? I shall do it. I will head to the dark reaches of your universe or dive into the Eye of Terror, if that is what you desire. I would enforce your will and that of my father where it does not exist."

The light began to dim and Hamaels vision began fogging in and out. The Emperor released his grip, "you will think you are betraying me."

"I will never betray you, m-"

"You will _think_ and you are not," he glared back. His voice demanding no further interruptions.. "You must reign in your urges, your pride, your dignity, if only for the time being. For I am aware that you are an angel of my beloved son and I ask much of you for this. Bide your time; follow, teach and learn. Protect the girl who claims to be your master and do not harm her. Though I know you may wish to. Refrain from it, for this I order you."

"My lord, I shall do as you wish." However, Hamael was confused. Shouldn't the world he perished on be now nothing but barren, lifeless rock. Its organic material turned to biomass that would be subsumed into the hivemind, to birth further monstrosities and abominations to plague the Imperium. Was it even still possible for someone to avoid the Tyranids after such a thorough scouring of life?

"Confusion and questions shadow your mind; all shall be clear soon. And I apologize… You were simply the wrong man in the wrong time at the right place. Farewell, Hamael of Baal Secundus." The Emperor faded away, taking his light and warmth.

Soon Hamael felt his eyes shut as a cold permeated into his body.

* * *

Hamaels eyes popped open. Pupils dilated and instantly adjusted to the low levels of light within the stone room. Flickering beams from burning torches giving off scant light from the sole entrance: a wooden door with a small barred window.

The machine-spirit in his armour, having sensed him conscious, came to life. The emergency solar batteries cycled and activated. Alarms, signals and diagnostic reports filled his helm feed before being silenced with a single thought. He needed to know where he was. This was not where he had fallen.

He fell on the open plains of a dying world, not in a damp room of roughly hewn stone and stale air.

Muscle fibre bundles contracted, actuators protested, joints groaned; Hamael pushed himself up, feeling the sharp aches of pain running down his limbs. His frame clambered from the hay bed he lay on in a clumsy manner, as he steadied his disorientated self. The burning of venom and pained flesh was still present but greatly diminished.

He didn't shrug the pain off, he fully embraced it. It was a wonderful feeling. It meant that he was still alive. He must not slumber again.

With open hands, Hamael reached where his weapons would be magnetically holstered and found nothing. He narrowed his eyes at this. A marines weapons were considered sacrosanct, especially one like his, as old and revered it was. And it was also a bad choice for anyone seeking to live long.

His nose picked up a pungent odour of bitter plants and strong alcohol, and looking down he could see cloth bandages stuffed inside cracks of his partially-cleansed armour. Clearly, his rescuers had attempted to clean and treat him. Though it would also show that they were unaware of Astartes physiology for the most part.

Not that many mortals knew in the first place but the meaning of the gesture was there. So he could respect them at least. Not many mortals would save an Astartes or try and treat one.

Activating the suit's chronometer, Hamael noted that roughly a terran-standard day had passed and he gave a quick prayer to the Emperor: thanking him for the speedy recovery and blessings for his mission. He moved towards the wooden door; noting that it was too small to allow him passage -more fitting in size for a base-line human- and was of primitive make. Peering through the narrow gaps of the barred window, his vision and the torchlight revealed that he was in a dungeon… along with the absence of any guards or fellow prisoners.

A tap and examination of the nearby walls revealed them to be solid rock, thick enough to deter any normal human prisoners but not enough to deter a determined Astarte. Especially one still wearing functioning, albeit damaged, power armour.

Which did leave a question of how they placed him in here. One that shall be answered later, if only to satiate his curiosity.

Hamael pondered his action. Should he leave to meet his saviour or captors, it would require him to smash his way out. An easy but noisy task for him. Or perhaps it would be wiser to simply wait for them to come back. The fact that they had attempted to heal him would mean that they would eventually come back to check on him.

Both were viable options. Both had their ups and downs. His experience, training and the Codex Astartes screamed at him to escape. To regroup and plan in a safer and secure environment, and reassess the situation.

However his instincts were hinting for him to stay here, waiting patiently for the right moment.

Then a choice was made.

* * *

Amidst the stone paved corridors of the Tristain Academy of Magic, two people carrying bandages and bottles walked together. Both of them chatting as they continued on their way lower, their surroundings slowly transitioning from luxury, to plain and finally old stone.

"Professor Colbert, I would like to thank you once again for helping me and letting me see my familiar." Louise de la Valliere said thankfully, happy that she was getting help. Though not to mention that it was not her who asked but rather it was the professor who approached her. And he turned incredibly excited when she gave him permission to come along to see her beautiful familiar, which may or may not be an angel according to him.

Needless to say, Lousie was saddened by the news. But the help was still appreciated and gave her a bit of a boost to her pride.

Not that it did much.

Her life, which was already torturous from the biting words and scorn of her peers, had only accelerated to a higher level of torture after yesterday's incident. Instead of the usual insults of 'zero' and 'failure', they now whispered more hurtful ones. Ones that stung harder than before.

Louise the death summoner.

Louise the _Angel _slayer.

"It is no trouble at all, Louise. In fact, I should be thanking you instead," Colbert replied back. "I have to say that giving me the chance to examine your familiar has been most exciting. And I can't wait to translate those writings on his armor."

Louise shook herself out of her thoughts.

"You can't read Old Romalian?"

"Not much, sad to say. I have studied them before and I never got the chance to fully study it. Though most people can pick up enough to understand with enough research, many don't. The language has been dead a long time, and the fact that you knew it was Old Romalian is already impressive."

Louise gave a prideful look, proud to have finally received some praise before she refocused on a question that was gnawing at her.

"So… professor. My familiar, when do you think he will wake up?" She asked.

"I'm not sure. He was injured quite badly, and we were unable to see how extensive the damage was. Not to mention that he is in a comatose state. Even the healers are unsure of when, or if, he will ever wake."

That was not good, Louise thought and felt a pang of guilt pulse within her. Perhaps it was her fault he was in this state, perhaps it was not. It still did not help her state of mind, but she knew he was her familiar. A gut feeling inside of her.

And she was about to ask something when she felt a strong vibration and the echoing sound of smashing metal on rock. They both looked at one another before they quickened the pace, dropping their packages to the ground, and realizing that the sound was coming from their destination; just down the corridor that would lead down into the dungeon.

"Louise, stay behind," Colbert ordered as they moved down the steps and turned a corner.

A second and third crash, each one louder and more audible than the last. Then the sound of crushing rock and tumbling stones, signalling that he had broken through the walls. Walls that were enchanted by an earth mage to be more durable and resilient due to its usage.

And her familiar had smashed through it. She felt proud and smug.

"No! He's my familiar and I have the respo—" Louise stopped, along with Colbert. With slack jaws as they looked upon the enormous figure, which towered over them and made the hall seem smaller, more narrow. Rock dust covered his golden battered frame and he looked -no, he glared- back at them. Blackened holes where eyes would be brokered no reflection from the nearby torches. A presence filled the air and it was overwhelming.

Louise wanted to step forward, to order her familiar to cease this, but had taken a fearful step back when he took a heavy step forward. She could hear the masonry crack under the weight of its feet.

Meanwhile, Colbert had frozen in place, stunned, before his courage lifted and he placed himself in front, between the Angel and Louise. His staff raised and he was about to chant something but stopped when _he_ spoke.

The voice of the Angel was mighty. A deep and resonating voice that oozed with authority and power.

"I am Brother Hamael, Sanguinary guard of the Blood Angels. To whom am I addressing and to whom shall I address my thanks for attending to my injuries?"

" I-I-I am… allow me to introduce myself, I am Professor Jean Colbert and this is my student," he gestured to Louise standing behind him, his voice adopting a veneer of calm. "Louise de la Valliere. We, along with the schools healers, attended to you, Angel Hamael."

Louise gave a small bow, staring timidly at her familiars mask as it looked upon her.

"I am grateful for your care. It is rare when mortals would save an Astartes." Hamael spoke again, this time much softer. "I would assume that I am in a schola? That is rather surprising to hear."

"Why is it so surprising?" Louise asked.

"Because I, nor the evacuation fleet, were not aware that there were still survivors here, especially a schola."

"A schola? What evacuation fleet?" Colbert said a bit puzzled. An evacuation fleet to where? There were no disasters going on in Tristan. No problems with the academy to warrant such a measure. And he couldn't help but feel that something was off here.

"How are you not aware? Did you not notice the Tyranid bio-ships that clotted the stars above? The endless swarms of monsters and beasts, devouring and stripping your world for the past four years? Of the fall of Hive Erandus and Arazul?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. What's a Tyranid? And there have been no insects hives around here." Confusion was on the faces of all present. Though none were as greatly confused as the Hamael, who stood still in place. A faint clicking was heard, like the ticking of a pebble on gravel.

"I do not know what you are speaking of, Angel Hamael. This is Tristain and last I recall, we have been at peace for years. So there has been no reason for an evacuation." Colbert broke the silence.

This was wrong thing to say, for as soon as Colbert ushered those words. The angel strode towards him, causing Louise and him to shy back a bit. Now a mere feet away, Hamael spoke even more quietly.

"There is much I do not know. Speak and tell me. Where am I?"

Louise answered, the giants' shadow looming over her. "You're in Tristain's Acade—"

"No, _Where am I_? What world is this? What planet? Which segmentum and sub-sector am I in?" The giant clarified, staring at Louise.

"This world, we only have this world. What other world do we have?"

* * *

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	3. Oath-bound

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**I decided to work faster for the holiday since I got a day off, after a few weeks of constant overtime. Thank you for giving me reviews, I appreciate it and it gives me something to help study. SO I now give this chap as a Christmas gift.  
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* * *

"I apologize for my… behaviour. I was unaware and alarmed by circumstances," Hamael spoke to the pair of mortals before him. It was unlike him to do what had happened, breaking the virtue of an angel by approaching those that have helped him in such a hostile manner. He admonished himself for such behaviour, placing himself some distance away. "I hope that you would be understanding about my circumstances. To find that one was not where he had fallen is alarming."

His mind must surely have been muddled and hazed. Whether from near-death, the remnants of Xeno poisons in his system or some other malady. He did not know. Never had he felt such rage, such anger, against a mere child for stating what she only knew.

The revelations were too troubling. And thus he channelled his frustrations inside, pushing it deep within him to process later. To meditate and process when peace and answers were given.

"We accept your apologies. And It would be easy to assume that you are not from here, Ang- Hamael. We have never seen someone like yourself before." Colbert asked, warily and shifted his staff. His posture that of a calm, patient man.

But Hamael could tell that he was prepared to fight, despite his friendly appearance. His eyes honed on the minute adjustments of this professor: the look of a veteran like the untold millions he had seen before. His ears could pick up the quick beating of nervous hearts pounding in fear or adrenaline.

A facade of a lion hiding posing as a household cat.

It was not uncommon for veterans to teach the youths of the Scholas back in the Imperium, perhaps they were of the same mind here. A wise decision to have experienced individuals teaching the young. Nonetheless, he was glad that he was dealing with someone who had some steel then another menial or droning scribe.

Hamael nodded, relaxing his posture. Breathing slowly he spoke."If you have then it would surprise me, Professor. It is obvious to me that I was not where I was or it would be well-known to you the terror, which is the Tyranids. But this would broker another question. Where am I and how did I arrive here?"

Colbert thought for a second before making a decision. "You are in Tristain, or to be more specific, you are in Tristain's Academy of Magic: A crown-run magic school for the children of nobles. And you were summoned by Louise De La Valliere here, to be her familiar."

"Magic? I am in a schola for psykers and I was summoned here with _warpcraft_?" Hamael voice was colder now, lacking the friendliness it once had. He felt conflicted: An urge to rush forward, taking the man by surprise by punching his fist through the chest. Logic told him to attack, to strike when he was unaware and to take advantage. It would be a simple affair -the witch was in front of him, mere seconds away.

Yet, he stayed his hand. They had treated and sheltered him -albeit in a dungeon. And he could not betray such courtesy, yet.

But, something was off.

He's had ample experience with warp users: From heretical traitor psykers of Chaos; The deprivations of Eldar and their cousins, the Dark Eldar; The green might that was the Waaaggh of the Greenskin and many he did not wish to name.

All of them were aware of Astartes. All, but a few, wouldn't hesitate to slay a wounded marine. Those that would spare him would do so if it was part of their malevolent schemes or vile purposes - A fate that could be worse than death.

Hamael then recalled something. A message that was ingrained into the depths of his mind. The potent words of the master of mankind: To be subservient to a girl that would claim to be his master. If such was true then he would loathe to serve this… juvie, especially a _psyker_ juvie. But he must. For he made an oath and he shall keep it, by Sangiunius name, and it was not the first time that he had to serve mortals.

However, he might as well test her. "And you mean that she, a small child, has summoned me? An Astartes of the Emperor to be a slave? Many have tried to enslave or lord over the Astartes, many more have failed. What's to say that you can or should?" He said slowly, pretending to be unamused and watching their expressions.

"Ye-"

"I am not a small child! And I _am_ your master, familiar," Louise pouted, cutting Colbert off, and stomped her foot for emphasis, unaware that tensions had arisen or to the tone of Hamaels voice. "The contract was set and you are not a slave. It is simply one of a master-servant relationship."

"Then how are you aware that I am under such a _contract_? I have signed no such thing. Or perhaps is this a custom amongst the psykers of this world: to bind those too wounded or weak to resist? With papers and words or assumptions that It would be accepted out of gratitude? Presumptuous of you, to base a relationship on guesses. It is a thin line you tread. And with an Astartes, a Blood Angel, you tread along very thin line." Hamael warned.

"Because you have been branded!" Louise retorted in a haughty manner, but her expression was wavering between delight and unease, "and it is my right as a noble to claim a familiar."

"Then where is my brand?" Hamael asked, throwing Louise off. But he was confused as well. His armour had not been removed, the locks still clasped when he awoken and the logs showed no signs of entry… so where? "Clearly, if I am what you say a 'servant'. Then I should be branded, as you say, somewhere noticeable." He examined Colbert and the stunned, haughty noble child. This was not the first time he had to deal with the nobility - horrid cowards most of the time, many of whom were unworthy of their station.

Yet, there were some stellar, worthy examples. Some who he was proud to serve and fight alongside. But he could still recall the countless occasions where both, either the virtuous or the intolerable, would try to lord over him and his kind.

Tried.

This 'Louise' was the latter in his opinion. Though, she was still a child, unlearned, and thus a work in progress.

Louise stood in place, lost in thought. "I.I...I don't know?"

"Then I would not be a 'familiar' if I have not been branded? Am I correct to presume?"

"That would be so," Colbert interjected with a nod, still on edge.

"N-no, no. I did complete the ceremony, I kissed him and there was a light." Louise stammered, unable to explain. Her earlier emotions now melting like snow under the burning sun.

"But no brand?" Hamael questioned.

"Yes… no. It should be on you, somewhere, anywhere." Louise said desperately. Her unease spreading on her face, clear as daylight. Hamael restrained lashing out when she ran at him in a frenzy to search for this 'brand'. It was futile and she soon gave up. "Maybe... maybe it's under your armour. Yes, it should be." She suggested, reassuring herself.

"So you wish for an angel to undress in front of you? To prove your false claims?" Hamael suggested with hidden mirth. She was desperate. Why? Why did she require a familiar so badly?

"Yes, wait, no. Yes!" She alternated her answer.

"That is enough, Le Valliere." Colbert cut in, knocking the base of his staff against the stone floor.

Hamael had half-suspected that the man was trying to keep him placated. Not that this would cause him to be annoyed. In other circumstances, he would be but slammed on his desire to do so. At least for now.

"I _did_ do it, Professor. You were there! You saw me! I am not a zero, I am not a failure. I have finally succeeded in something for I have summoned my familiar. I will not be expulsed! I shall not be sent home. As. A. Failure." Louise all but shouted with determination and fear, wisps of tears almost coming out.

Ah, that would explain it. A not uncommon case among hive-nobility, where the strong would lead entire dynasties and the failures were scorned or _removed._ Hamael continued to study the panicking youth and then he made a choice. A choice of one.

"Enough!" He shouted, his vox-enhanced voice boomed along the empty hallways, "I have heard enough. I see that you are truly unworthy of my service and if given the choice. I would slay you for trying to enslave an Astartes." Then Hamael moved. For all his size, he moved with stunning speed. In a whirl, he was standing right in front of wide-eyed Louise and a stunned Colbert.

Then to their further surprise, he went down on one knee, placing his face downwards and clenched one fist on his golden breast. Even kneeling, he stood above her, nearly reaching Colbert's chest, and then he spoke.

"However it is not my choice, for I have sworn an oath…" Hamael paused to give his word the needed effect, "Rejoice Louise de La Valliere for I, Brother Hamael of the Blood Angels, pledge to accept the role as your _familiar_. To teach and guide; to be your shield and protector until my time comes, my oath is relieved or you betray the Emperor's trust. Under the name of the Ninth legion, my father and the gaze of the Emperor, do you accept my pledge?"

The only response was a comical expression on Louise's face, her mouth gaping open and close. Mind trying to process what was said, confusion at some words and bafflement at others, then she stammered out.

"I...I do."

And Hamael stayed silent, his right hand twitched unknowingly.

* * *

Louise laid on her bed and stared at her ceiling. A thing she had done on many occasions -whenever she failed, whenever frustration reared its head or the lack of progress at her studies -on the magical front- or even the impending possibilities of a bleak future.

'A future that should and will no longer exist,' she thought gladly. Weary and fatigued. She turned her head from the white plaster sky, gazing around the decently furnished room, past the artisan dressers and wooden desks and then stopped at one thing at the end of the room.

The golden angel. He stood stock-still like an oversized suit of decorative armour, partially masked by the lamp-light. The blackened glass eyes of his mask were focused on her, she could feel it despite it not showing.

Her new familiar, Hamael, was a mystery to her and the cause of some new worries.

The man, or angel, never spoke once the pledge was accepted, regardless of her demands for answers.

He simply remained silent in the face of her orders and demands. An insolent gesture after such an '_oath'_. She would've tried to discipline and chastise him if the professor had insisted that not happen.

Like a silent bodyguard or golem, he stayed behind her with every step and she would've forgotten his presence if it wasn't for the spatter of noise that came from his suit; almost like a faint crackle of lightning or distinct low 'whirr', as if it was alive. And once she reached her room, Hamael hardly fit through the door; ending up nearly tearing it open as he squeezed through to her dismay.

Louise could not help but be thankful that Hamael had awoken at night, the school being virtually deserted of people. Imagine what would happen if he had awoken during that day, in his present condition. It would've only added more fuel to her unwanted reputation, more rumours.

But then her mind wandered to what Hamael mentioned earlier. Of how he fought against something called a 'Tyranid', a strange name. And that he was a Blood angel. What that meant she didn't know but it sounded rather ominous.

"What are you, Familiar?" Louise asked, not expecting him to respond. She knew he was of flesh, the fact he bled proved that, but beyond that. She didn't know. And some of the words he used were strange. There were no Emperors unless he meant Germania but what would an angel be doing in that back-water place? A land of barbarians, drunkards... and Kirche. That slut.

"I am a Blood Angel and I am Astartes. Have I not introduced myself properly earlier? Did I not also say my name?" Hamael spoke then chided, breaking the silence.

"You're speaking? Th-then why were you silent earlier?" Louise sat up.

"I was… _preoccupied _with examining the extent of the damages to my armour. I apologize for I was distracted."

"Then make sure to pay attention next time, familiar," Lousie said in a haughty manner. Though she became a bit worried once he mentioned his armour. It was the master's role to take care of her familiar, that was true, but where was she gonna find someone to fix it up? Could the local blacksmith even do it? And most importantly, can she even afford to care for him with the allowance from home -he was awfully big, after all.

A thousand Ecu's should support an average student to live in relative luxury, and depending on familiar, for roughly a year. But, no one had summoned an angel before. Not to mention that she currently had a pile of hay for him to sleep on, if he even slept.

Hamael did not respond, preferring to stay silent than give a response.

"Now that you can talk," Louise took her familiars silence as agreement and shaking her thoughts away. "I've been thinking. What is a Blood angel? How is it different from normal angels? And what is an Asstarts?"

"Astartes, as-tar-tes," Hamael growled in annoyance.. " And I do not know what you mean by angels. All Astartes are angels. All angels are Astartes. And to answer your other questions. We, the Blood Angels, are a founding legion dedicated to the Emperor of Man. The blooded host, defenders of Humanity and among the most loyal amongst His servants." he explained with pride.

"But how do you not now know what an angel is if you are one? You know a divine being with two wings and flies with a divine sword? Serves Brimnir up in heaven? You have wings also for Brimnir's sake!" Louise asked. Skepticism and surprise in her growing voice. Every answer he gave only sprouted more questions and she felt overwhelmed.

"Then you must be referring to my father, the Primarch Sangunius. For he was the only ones to have true wings. However, I am merely one of his many sons in blood and genes. And he has never served anyone by the name of Brimnir, only one man and that man was the Emperor. That I can assure you."

Louise felt another worry being added to her list. Her familiar _may_ be the angel of another god. She may be the master of a _heretic_ angel, who was not an actual angel but was related to one.

'What joy' she thought sarcastically. The church would just love to have a talk with her if they found out. A very _through_ talk.

"Then what are you then? What is Astarte?" enunciating the unfamiliar words slowly. And secretly preened a bit with pride when he gave a nod.

"I was once a mortal, now reborn into an angel. An angel of death," Hamael explained. "We who were once mortal were given the chance to become the Emperor's greatest warriors and we accepted. With the genes of our fathers, we are formed. In the fire of battle, we are forged. In the anvil of war, we are tempered. In the blood of his foes, we are quenched. We are Astarte, the angels of death. And we shall know no fear," he finished and Louise could just feel the pride laced in it.

With a slow blink and a long exhalation, Louise closed her mind and focused on happier thoughts. She summoned an angel of death. An angel of death in a school academy. If one's familiar was supposed to key them into what their element was… what element was an angel of death? Necromancy? That was something she clearly wanted to avoid.

Too many questions clogged her mind. Her emotional state going up and down faster than a spastic mage learning how to fly. She decided that she just wanted to lie down… and sleep.

But first.

"Familiar, I have some laundry I need to be cleaned. Inside the basket by the table; I expect them to be clean by the time I wake up." She ordered, closing her eyes for the beautiful embrace of sleep.

"You expect me to clean _clothes?_ I am not a thrall or a serf, I have no experience in cleaning soiled garments and wear. I am no cleaner, I am an angel of d-" Hamael argued, confused at the order and surprised.

Louise cut him off. "Then go be an angel of cleaning. Take this as an order, Familiar. You can rest when the job is finished and there should still be some servants in the academy at this hour who can assist you," she could imagine the outraged look on the man or angels face, if he had a face. Did he even have one?

"... Very well, _mistress_."

Louise could hear the sound of creaking wood then the whispering cry of the door being nearly ripped off; she made a reminder to have a much larger door installed. Then a quiet click and finally, silence. A quick look afterwards revealed an empty room, devoid of Hamaels presence.

And then Louise closed her eyes once more, letting her mattress pull her down into its comfy embrace.

And dreamt.

* * *

Right away, Hamael could tell that he was gonna dislike his new _master._

He skulked down an empty, nearly dark hallway bearing a basket of clothes. His suits auspex searching for life-signs, the image of blinking green dots that indicated living souls proving to be sparse at this hour, and onboard cogitators formed a map, in both mind and data. Panes of clear glass illuminated sections and lavishly made paintings at set intervals with dim light. Hamael glimpsed a peek out one as he passed.

It only compounded the fact that he was not where he was before. The view of two moons, partially blocked by clouds but still visible in the high night skies. He clearly recalled that his previous world had four, well three now. One was destroyed when he got there.

His mind then dwelt to his damage logs. It was not as bad as he feared, besides the obvious gap in his chest, most of the rest could be easily repaired on-field with the proper tools. But the only glaring issue was fuel for his near-empty jump pack -the cogitator calculating that the remnants were roughly enough for few minutes of flight-, supplies and his missing war-gear.

His precious weapons, relics in their own regards and much older than he was. Bequeathed to him upon his entry into the angelic guard. It was an immense honour.

Where they were now, he cannot recall. Only fragments of memory where the encramine axe was slammed into the skull of the beast with rage and fury. His gun knocked away by a glancing blow, sending it skidding into the dust cloud that enveloped both of them.

Thoughts and memories surfaced of that battle. Of brothers lost during the disastrous affair, their gene-seed and holy war-gear forever lost, a deep, painful wound for their chapter. Their charges, those they swore to protect, being devoured despite promises of salvation and safety. Though he wasn't the one to make them, his captain, Brother Cordelion, did so, but it was still the chapters charge and promise, regardless.

A promise that was not kept. But it was avenged with the tyrant's death with his own hands… then his.

"_Emperor, please guide me for my mind is still clouded. Tell me what is it that you require of me, here? What is my goal besides that juve?_" Hamael thought to himself. Shaking his head and dispelling those thoughts until all that was left was regrets about his earlier oath, then that too was shoved to the back of his mind. He had a goal now.

To find out more of this place, this world and their society. And to get his task done.

Though it was a task best suited for a serf, he couldn't help but grind his teeth in annoyance at the fact that a child would dare order him to do… laundry. A marine honed and birthed in war to do housework. What did she expect him to do? Plant a melta bomb in her drawers?

Imagine, a space marine doing a child's laundry?

Preposterous, an unthinkable waste. It was unfathomable… it was also entirely something that a noble might do.

But still, it was an order and he must comply despite its unusualness and eccentricities.

Hamiel continued his silent walk amidst the peaceful halls of gold, marble and carved stone, ignoring any of the still dots- logic dictating that these were most likely his _master's_ fellow students. His travels found him moving from the more furnished areas and heading down a series of smaller halls. These were more simple compared to those he had passed; the tiles were replaced with flat stone, the furnishments were gone or wooden crates took their place; dead lamps gave way to lit torches.

There was someone nearby he could feel it.

His auspex pinged as if to respond to his intuition, a sole dot was heading towards his direction at the intersection ahead. His ears picked up the faint clicking of shoes, slow and easy-going, and a melodic humming. The owner was in no hurry and would soon turn towards him, seeing him in full view.

He had no means to tell whether this person was a servant or not, besides approaching them. And had no compunctions to avoid contact since doing so would void the whole affair in the first place. Who knows perhaps he could accomplish another objective as well. The servants would certainly be knowledgeable about local affairs.

So he decided to approach.

* * *

Siesta hummed to herself, a rolling melody that peaked and dipped, as she idled her way down the servant halls towards her next task.

Her body and limbs felt taut from the day's labour. And she stretched while as she walked to the sound of a reliving crack. The summoning of familiars had increased the workload of the academy staff by nearly two-folds, and despite having prepared for it days before. It was still an arduous task for them to find out the likes and dislikes of the various beasts and creatures.

It also didn't help that a student had supposedly summoned a dead demon and angel, which meant that it was up to the groundskeeper and a few volunteers to help bury them off-campus; a difficult task given the size from what she heard. So hard that they needed a professor, an earth mage, to help with excavating the pit and moving the bodies.

She gave a chuckle when she recalled how Nemo, the kitchens help and one of the unfortunates 'volunteered', came back during lunch described it in great detail. Though she felt that it was greatly exaggerated. Men always liked to embellish the details a bit, especially when it came to showing off.

Especially when showing off.

Imagine. A demonic creature the size of a manor; armour that was like an insect or lobster's carapace, coloured a rich dark-purple; teeth like a row of needles and bones shaped like scythed talons for hands; the scent of rot, sulphur and death that emitted from it.

What a humorous thought.

Siesta had no doubt that some of the things he mentioned were true. But he also had a habit of lying, trying to impress the other female staff, and her, with lavish tales and stories. So every word was to be taken with a grain of salt -or pound in Nemo's case.

But it was when he began to speak about the dead angel was she intrigued. Of how he was the size of three men with the broad body and muscles of pure, divine gold. Wings that were marred with damage but shined an almost luminous white. And a face that was sterner than the head chefs on a bad day.

It would've been a sight to see. Pity that she was elsewhere at the time. The way Nemo had described the angel reminded her of something her father and grandfather would regale to her, stories passed on from her deceased great grandfather.

Fanciful and wondrous tales of a distant island empire ruled by a mighty emperor embarking on a great crusade to find his lost sons and reclaim lost enslaved colonies. Legions of giant magical knights on fearsome beasts, airships of mammoth proportions and potent magics at his beck and call. Then the riveting account of how he, personally, fought alongside these knights in their war.

She quite enjoyed them. It was sad that he passed away before she was born, the ending forever lost to the grave. And the only thing that remained was a small worn-away pendant tied on her wrist and the annoying habit to rub it for good luck, when nervous.

When she turned the corner, her mind distracted. She found a wall of gold blocked her path. A wall that was structured rather strangely, almost like the abs of a muscled-man. Turning her head slowly upwards. She worked her way up to a crack in the gold, spying pink scarred flesh, and continued higher to be met with a stern gaze from a human face, the outline of white wings behind him.

Blackened glass eyes looked back into her blue eyes, pupils dilating into saucers. Jaws went slack along with arms. Fear growing as her heart slowed to a crawl and held her still.

A mouse in front of a beautiful, and horrifying, golden angel.

"Are you a servant of the academy?" It sounded calm, almost like a rumbling whisper. But to Siesta, it was as loud and frightening as the crack of a nearby thunderbolt.

"Y-ye-ye-yes! I am," she squeaked out, her legs not responding to her urge to flee.

The giant nodded, "That is most fortunate. I was looking for a servant to assist me in something..."

Siesta stood rigidly as the giant lifted up a wicker basket, her mind groping at what may be inside it: A body? Some kind of foul thing? Or was he gonna kidnap her? Her eyes clenched hard, waiting for the inevitable, as she leaned back unconsciously.

She waited for something to happen, but nothing did. Then opening her eyes a smidge, she did not see what she imagined but instead was greeted to the sight of clothes. Students clothing. And relief coursed through her even though she was admittingly still frightened.

"I need assistance in washing my… _masters_ garments. I apologize that I may have unnerved you, a common reaction to those who view my kind. If you are unwell, kindly direct me to the next servant." He spoke out, uncaring of her behaviour as if used to it.

Siesta collected herself, nerves still jittering. "I-I can help you angel." she trailed off.

"Hamael, You may call me Hamael. I serve Louise de la Valliere as her… servant." He introduced himself with a nod.

"Siesta," she replied, and looking more closely realized that his face was not real -instead, it was a mask of a man. "I can take care of those for you, Hamael."

"That would be appreciative, but I insist on coming with you. I would like to learn more about this place and having someone to talk too would be… pleasant., if you will allow me."

"That would not be a problem." She gave a smile, reassured that he truly meant no harm. And she turned curtly to lead the way as Hamael followed along. Her fingers rubbing a heavily polished pendant.

* * *

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**RustKnight**

**AN: Even I am not sure, but I have a rough idea.**

**logros13**

**AN: Thank you, please continue to let me know what you think.**

**Lord of Moons **

**AN: I can't say much as the plot is still in planning, and I am too busy to work on this often. Maybe once a week. But I am forced to use the anime and some parts of the light novel as reference. I can't find a way to read the Ln here.**

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	4. Author Announcement: Sad news people

**AN: Hi, guys.**

**Sorry to say but this is not another chapter of the story. And I am more sorry to announce that this story is gonna be on a semi-permanent hiatus. **

**Not because my writing sucks (Though it is a factor, big factor) but that I have just accepted a very long-term and lucrative job to a place which has shoddy internet: if at all.**

**It has also come to my attention that my overall style is unreadable, lacks plot and "emotions" and by quite a few angry PM's (god, you guys are vicious) the characters not acting themselves and being retarded-like and mary-sues galore (my personal favourite). So I have decided that putting this story on Hiatus would be for the best as I don't think dealing with this would help with my new job. And thanks for the reviews, I appreciate them for those who left them.**

**Hopefully, I can continue this someday or at least until I can get my hands on any of the following options: A) a co-writer B)a beta-reader/ co-writer C) another re-write D) a coherent plot E) a nice bottle of jack's.**

**Thanks and I wish you guys happy new years, and also a final thank you for all my Fav's and Followers.**


	5. Dreams or Memories?

**AN: Hi Everyone. I just decided to pop this out. My new job has turned into a... hectic and somewhat depressing mess. Quite depressing. Huge deviation from what I originally expected. SO I decided to distract my self for a bit. This doesn't mean that I'm continuing this permanently, but I'll occasionally do some work. Hoping to improve writing skills and at least entertain some people.**

_**Please leave a review.**_

* * *

Louise was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming because the last thing was the sight of her room, nestling on her comfy bed, wrapped in its soft sheets. Her mind too tired from the repeated shocks and turns of earlier events. The desire to just sleep embraced her and she embraced it in return.

Now inside her dream, she found herself peering out a massive thick-pane window into a dark void with muted awe. Only it just wasn't only a plain void. It was filled with fleets of strange, yet beautiful, ships clashing with one another with spears of light and potent magicks. Hordes of small, darting dragons flitted among the chaos and wreckage against one another, mouths spewing out rods of light, fire and lightning.

Burning stars flared for the briefest of moments, a corona of expanding colour, before dissipating into non-existence like a snuffed candle. Then another would appear elsewhere in the sea of fire. Ruined wrecks of metal behemoths drifted slowly, leaving trails of glittering dust, misty atmosphere and fire.

However, it was what was behind the teeming mass of insanity and destruction that caught her attention.

A world, Louise recognized. The shape bore a remarkable resemblance to that of a globe, one she had seen in passing at an antique shop long ago, though the landmasses were unfamiliar. It was just like it, hovering there amidst the frenzied stars.

But it was a world on fire. An almost unfathomable concept but it was undeniable. She could make out the flames that wrapped around the globe like long, spindly appendages of a malformed claw. Strange shapes resembling mushrooms would flare up: a geyser of light and fire that popped out into the dark and lingered. Meteors and burning rocks rained non-stop towards its burning surface in an unceasing tide.

Louise would've continued to stare at this… battle in the heavens. So beautiful to see an entire world in front of her like a giant, shining marble. A jewel of green, blue and red. But horrifying at the devastation that it mesmerized her to watch as stars burnt and flickered into momentary life. The idea that this was a nightmare and a dream in a horrendous fusion began to dawn on her before something shook her from her thoughts.

The sound of footsteps. Heavy footsteps that were akin to that of a pacing, lumbering giant.

She turned behind her and balked at the oversized figure in the center of the room, gazing out the same window she was with a menacing look.

It, or he, stood over her, towering even her familiar and in the barest of senses resembled him. His body was clad in black armour that was darker than even the encompassing void outside. Golden and bronze ornamentation was wreathed across its massive metal body, shaped into eye-burning arcane symbols and filigree. Its right arm was monstrously over-sized and ended in five golden sinister-looking talons. The left-arm held a brutal mace which was almost its height. Skulls of men and women, fresh and mummified, were attached to hooks on his belt or within the folds of the giant blackened wolf pelt attached to his back besides freshly flayed skin- which she did not want to imagine what animal it belonged too… or person. Like-like jewel eyes of amber akin to those of a goat littered its armour, peering at all with its baleful gaze: the most disturbing were the three large ones that went from its chest to its groin.

Though what was most disturbing to her, and sickening, was the withered face bearing arrogance, hatred and pride. He felt _wrong_. It was the look of a human turned monster with glowing red eyes of malevolence and madness. Thick wires protruded from the back skull, illuminated in the burning glow which gave his pale skin a devilish hue of blood-crimson red. Behind him were similar but less ornate, less intimidating and much smaller in stature, versions of him; demon-like beasts of unnatural and mind-throbbing incomprehension and leering abominations of metal and man.

A horde of lesser monsters to serve a greater one, she thought but dare not voice.

The giant took a single, thundering step forward towards her direction, his mouth smirking at the distant destruction. Louise felt the ground shake and trembled before him. It was now obvious that he could not see her despite being blatantly in front of him, a kitten crouching before a behemoth monster, but it did not diminish the hidden fear that perhaps he would… and could.

And she shuddered to think of what would happen.

The giant turned back and gestured towards the burning planet with an open claw. "Do you not see my sons? This world, Terra, marvel and gaze upon its new appearance. Look at how its palaces burns. Before I was once its proudest son, _his_ proudest son, and now we have returned. We returned as its liberator against the lies and deceit. And we bring truth in our wake." He boomed out loud. The sound of emotionless cackling, hissing agreement and scrambled laughter answered back, echoing around the chambers and tinting it into a haunting inhuman tone.

He made to speak again but something interrupted him.

_Knock._

"Horus! You are no liberator! You are traitor, a deceiver, this I shall declare!" A firm, comforting voice boomed back. An undertone of rage and fury tinted it, hidden yet felt in the sheer potency of the accusation.

Louise turned to the speaker, her eyes wide with awe and wonder.

A large individual charged out from the shadows of the broad entrance. With a flick of his golden wrist and a blur of red, a black-armoured guard found himself bisected in seconds and a red fork-tongued demon found itself banished into burning chunks; fading away like burning paper. The being ignored them, as if a stain in his sight, as he faced towards his target with seething anger.

The new figure had a similar build to the first giant, Horus, though that was where the similarities ended. This one more closely resembled her familiar, in both gear and look. If it could even be compared to what she was seeing. It was a giant clad in splendid golden armour of almost fey make. A series of ruby eyes in the center of the chest and right pauldron stared back in defiance of the evil in front, as if daring them to act. A pelt of a massive white-furred spotted creature wrapped from his shoulder, forming a robe that trailed behind his wake. An ornate sword with a blood-red blade was held in his right hand, crackling with potent energies and power. Then she saw what protruded from his back: Behind the pelts; behind the armour; the halo of the rising golden dawn; and past the aura of purity and nobility.

Wings. Two massive pure-white feathery wings that spread out wide as if descending from above. The occasional feather tinted in bright red did not mar the sight, but it only enhanced the majesty.

However, the notable difference between both of them was their faces. Where the first akin to that of a demonic existence, perhaps one of the pinnacles of evil. _He_ was the opposite. The marbled face was that of a divine angel. No, he was more akin to that of an arch-angel or perhaps even a god, Louise imagined as her heartbeat in a fast rhythm.

He was beautiful in a breathtaking sense. Long golden locks of hair blended with the firm white features of his face; deep blues eyes that assured protection and love, while also promising death to those that mean to hurt under his protection.

It was the look of a father, a protector and a guardian; his presence demanding those who were righteous and noble to follow or kneel in supplication before him, either in sheer admiration or awe -something that she almost found herself doing. However, at the moment it quickly contorted into grievous visage, one of furiousness and pain.

Now Louise bore witness to the two giants, two mighty beings or demi-gods: the deamon king and the Arch-angel.

"Sanguinius, my brother," The demon purred as he faced the angel with a smile that closely resembled an arrogant grin of teeth, "It is pleasant that you grace us with your presence. Come, come and join me, we can be together again, as brother and friends once more. My final offer. We will show _father_ that we are not tools: to be thrown away and forgotten once we are used up and broken. I found the _truth_ behind his sweet lies. And so have many of our brothers! Join me now and together we shall tear him down from his throne, rebuilding this travesty into the actual Imperium. The _True_ Imperium. I give this sole chance, favoured brother." He stretched out his claw, offering a welcoming hand to the Angel. The words oozed thick with arrogance and confidence like honey.

Louise almost found herself believing the man but shook herself out of her stupor, barely. She turned to face the angel again, hoping to voice a warning to reject the offer. But she paused. For a moment, the angel seemed to adopt a sad, sorrowful expression. Of inevitability and loss. But it was only for a moment before being buried under a sole burning, raging emotion.

"Never!" the Angel roared, snarling with sword raised directly at the demon, Horus, standing firm against his temptations, "I shall not betray our Father! You preach of liberation, I only see a thousand burning worlds at the whims of the insane, the crazed and the never-born. The death of our brothers by your hands in betrayal and the madness you bring before you. What has taken over you? That you would besmirch _his_ name with accusations and false words, against one who called you his son and you to him as father?!"

"I saw the _truth_ and I embraced it." Horus seethed, knowing that negotiations had broken down. His mace grinding on the floor as he slowly built up his pace towards his once-brother. Sparks jumping into a maddened flurry. The Arch-angel moved also, wings flared up and sword raised.

Both then broke into a sprint towards one another. War-cries, benedictions and curses broke out from their lips, but were drowned out by the myriad of chanting and screams' from the demon kings followers; their voices barked with harsh, grating tongues and grunts.

No more words were said. None were needed at this moment. The tension in the air signalled the only course of action, a heavy static hung in the air. One offered, the other denied, and both glared with pure hatred at one another. They, and only they, existed in a world of their own: both locked in a battle bereft of distractions and interference.

In a flash of black and gold, both sides clashed against one another in a flurry of strikes, blows and parries. Their movements were too fast to register but Louise could feel her eyes burn, her senses alight and skin tingled. The whole chamber pulsed with surging power and potent energies; sword and mace clashing in blinding light and fire. Bodies clashed with an earth-shattering force: denting the thick floors and shaking the room with thunderous bangs akin to cannon fire. Air grew heated from the friction of the ensuing battle and arcane energies.

_Knock. Knock._

It was a duel that was unlike any she had or, perhaps, would ever see again; one that would fit into that of legends and myth of ancient times. Two god-like beings of unimaginable power clashing in a struggle for revenge and hatred. Louise did not know how long they fought, but it had felt like eons had passed as they battled back and forth, constantly.

Then the angel propelled himself upwards, dodging a swing narrowly on beating wings, and then dived at a sharp angle. With a blur of crimson, his sword smashed unto the chest plate of the demon with a resounding tear. A small, jagged crack formed, revealing the weakened interior and the monster howled loudly in frustration. Golden talons swinging out in a maddened response, thirsting for vengeance.

Dread filled Louise's heart as it closed onto one of the angel's wings. Golden Claws biting into the white feathers: bones cracking like brittle twigs, blood leaked between the golden digits. The angel cried in gritted pain. The sound of snapping echoed in her mind and sickened her. She instinctively knew what came next. It was horrifyingly obvious, a wounded eagle before the wide maw of the savage wolf.

The demon jerked and laughed, the angel sent downwards to the floor, ripped from the air and sent plummeting like a rock. The ground shook again, the angel was dazed, confused and stuck in a pained haze. A momentary lapse of weakness that the demon sprung upon with glee.

A second that determined the battle. A second that stretched into years, if not centuries.

The mace smashed into the angel's chest, shattering his golden armour and pulverizing the flesh underneath in a killing blow. Blood sprayed from the fatal wound, at first like a fountain then it dropped downwards in a slow rain of vitae, staining his white pelts and feathers. And the angel began to fall.

Louise then found her vision failing, head growing faint and heavy, and she found herself falling towards the darkness. The scent of iron burning into her nose, mind spiralling into a dizzying spin alongside the angel's demise.

Agonizing cries screamed inside her head: Deep, strong, potent. First, it was one, the angel. Then it grew to thousands, tens of thousands, of different voices following suit with abject horror, loss, outrage… and utter madness. Blending into a gestalt amalgamation of pure, potent emotions. Every syllable intertwining into a cacophony of one word, a sole identity: a name spat out and laced with seething hatred, blinding rage and an eternal burning desire for vengeance.

"Horus! Horus! Horus!"

"Why Horus? Why?"

And then silence.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

* * *

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Louise opened her eyes. She sat up in a flurry, throwing her bedsheets to the side and breathed in a panicked breath, looking frantically around the room. Instead of an alien environment of metal and shadows; a battle of the gods. She only saw the familiar wood furniture and quaint decorations stood wherever she looked, though it looked more empty now.

She took a moment before reassuring herself with a calming hand. It must've been a dream, or perhaps some kind of nightmare, she couldn't tell. However, she knew she was a frazzled mess, judging from the nearby mirror. Still garbed in her school clothes from yesterday, which now clung to her. Her hair was a ragged nest. The bed, once beautifully set, now resembled a battlefield. And she could tell that she had sweated heavily during her slumber, judging from the unmistakable but faint smell.

Whatever it was. It still clung to her, hiding in the back of her mind like a lingering memory. The rage. The potency of the hatred and spite laced within. It was unearthly and haunting. The loathing at a name.

Then her sight rested on the hay pile on the far wall, undisturbed and just as fresh. And then she realized that her familiar was nowhere in sight.

Where was her familiar? She realized, unable to spot the golden frame of the angel in her room.

_Knock. Knock._

"Who is it?" Louise asked loudly. Turning her head in a snap while hurryingly patting her shirt straight as if the person on the other side was able to see her dishevelled state.

"Can I come in? I've come with your laundry" A feminine voice asked out, unfamiliar to her but sounded a bit servile. Perhaps it was one of the academy servants, she thought.

"You can leave it by the door," she ordered before she remembered something. Didn't she ask for her familiar to do her laundry? Then a realization hit her as she recalled last night. She had. But why didn't he bring it? She had explicitly ordered him to do so, though she felt some regret for that action now.

"Very well, also the headmaster has asked for your presence and of your familiar."

Either way, the headmaster wanted to see her… and her familiar. Oh, her familiar… who she had little to no idea where he currently was. This was gonna be troublesome. Her heart rate slowly picked up. Panic growing at the unsettling idea that her familiar had possibly run away.

"Uh, sure. Let me clean up and I shall meet him right away," She quickly bit out, mind racing as to explain the absence of a golden giant. And of where he could've gone.

"Yes, He has stressed that this was urgent. Also, your familiar is waiting for you in the Headmasters office."

Louise's mind stalled, confusion lining her face; whether from the surprise meeting, her unpleasant sleep or the break-down that was yet to be. A series of new questions clouded her mind. What was he doing there? How did he get there? And why did he not wake her also, if the headmaster had wanted to see both of them? "Did the headmaster say why he wanted to see me?" she asked, hastily preparing for the day's activity. Washing, changing, perfuming. All activities that would've taken a good deal of time, like a clockwork religious ceremony, being done in mere, rushed minutes.

The maid did not say anything for a moment before she then spoke up in a surprised tone. "He did not say. But, I think it may have to do with the new holes in one of the towers. I am surprised you managed to sleep through that. He was quite loud."

"What!" Louise yelled out. The person behind the door gave a squeal of fright at the sudden, loud outburst, the sound of a dropping wicker basket hitting the ground.

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**_Please leave a_ review.**


	6. Envy and Wrath

**AN: Hey people, wanted to let you know that I am still alive- had a bit of a sick moment for the past few months. And that I have been working on this during the wait, though I lost all the notes and things (including the previous version of this chap) in an accidental, medical moment. However, I managed to recover some of it and I think I remember where I was going with it. So I'm resolving to write what I think I was writing... at least to the best of my memory (which is getting shoddy).**

**Story is still on semi-hiatus.  
**

**I hope you enjoy this. If not, please let me know. Thank you to those who have left a review in my past chapters.  
**

_Please leave a review. _

* * *

This was enlightening, Hamael thought as he stood beside the far wall of the courtyard. He listened meticulously to Siesta as she answered his inquiries. Her hands worked within the stone basin, scrubbing his master's garments under both torch and moonlight, a torrent of words, stories and local hearsay flowed out as easily as the spout of the open faucet.

They had an exchange going on, where one would ask and the other would answer; both speaking to the best of their knowledge. Though, Hamael has been asking more than answering.

One thing that Hamael found confusing during this was the lingua, the speech, spoken here. It was the one constant that he's noticed so far, a commonality between them all. Their mastery of fluent, modern-Imperial low gothic, the unifying language that bound the countless realms of man, as a local tongue. It is impossible to see this dialect spoken here, especially with their lack of contact with the Imperium at large.

Yet, despite the impossible, he was hearing it before him. The way they all spoke: the words, grammar and tone. It sounded as if he was still on an Imperial world; so lacking it was in the linguistic deviation and evolutions found in worlds or civilizations long-isolated and lost.

It was strange, a trivial anomaly best left for a scribe or some Mechanicum menial to investigate if it had ever piqued their curiosity. Yet, something nagged at him, tugging at his senses. It told him that there was something amiss. He would need more information from a formal, or learned source.

If he could find any, for his current one was… lacking. Well, not truly lacking. Siesta had proven to be adequate once she had stopped fearing him and opened up. Although, tinges of apprehension were visible underneath her veneer of friendliness.

Hamael will admit that it was not surprising. He wasn't the most social or charismatic of his brothers, not like his Chapter Master: Lord Dante, he who was noble beyond reproach, ageless and wise. And not even him, The Lord of Angels, leader of the Blood Angels, was a complete exception to the curse of separation between mortals and Astartes. Though he inspired awe instead, such was the price for their ascension

But, Hamael truly meant no harm to her and thus tried to keep as friendly a posture as possible; with his voice low and empty, open hands bared in plain view.

Disregarding her coloured view of the local political situation and recent history, with 'recent' defined as 'within the last few decades'. The accuracy of anything past that had dug up bare-bones, snippets of myths or, in her words, the rumours of a friend from a friend.

So scant little to go off of, yet there was much that was learnt. A rather surprising amount of information, in fact. Very few would pay attention to the menials, the unseen servants and the forgotten. A rich, untapped resource but one that required distillation, filtration and refinement, like aged Amsec.

Experience has taught him that. Observation has guided him. And so he continued to listen. His enhanced brain and trans-human intelligence working in dual unison between her and his internal formulations, sifting through the streams of information with great diligence, connecting fragments and rumours into an ever-shifting, ever-growing web of logical, illogical and impossibilities of chance.

From what he could surmise, he was currently positioned within the monarchical country of Tristania, a minor nation nestled between two bigger, more powerful entities, governed by a cardinal as regent in the name of the Crown Princess, Henrietta de Tristain. And whose society, he surmised, was at a mid-feudal stage, given the lack of any signs of industrial devices seen so far.

Then there are its neighbouring rulers. The holy Germanian Empire, a militaristic land of supposed barbarians, which lay towards his north-east, and Gallia, another major Kingdom in the south-west. Siesta also had mentioned a few other kingdoms in passing or reference, though in lesser detail: Albion, a kingdom on a floating landmass to the west; and to the far south lay Romalia, the holy empire, and the center of this Brimiric faith. When she went into detail upon being asked, it aggravated him.

This faith. This... religion. Hamael had almost lashed out at the mention of it. He nearly found himself boiling with rage, his blood simmering and his mouth in a taunt, stretched line, gauntlets clenching hard. An urge to flick a finger, to snap her tiny neck, grew once Siesta mentioned praises for this Brimnir, an ancient psyker that had once led the humans of this world long ago. And whose descendants then gave birth to the current system where the nobles, these uncontrolled, unsanctioned psykers, held reign and superiority over the common masses.

And that everyone had assumed he was one of his angels, Brimnir's_ herald._

That sickened Hamael.

A feeling of disgust bubbled inside. He detested this, all of this. He had studied the consequences of such political entities in the old archives, even seen them first-hand on the few reclamations and exploratory crusades that ventured into sectors unknown in his earlier years. It never ended well. They never ended well.

They never do.

Most of them resulting in their self-destruction, subsumed by the perfidious foes of the Imperium and left unsalvageable. Leaving only the ruined husk of worlds and stars. There were the rare exceptions... and they were the most dangerous ones. The rulers being hollowed out by their foul, daemonic masters in the warp, puppeting their bodies like malformed flesh-suits or bursting into reality like open cancer to corrupt and warp.

Now he found himself at one of their exalted centers of learning; where the youths and juves honed their skills under the tutelage of their senior magic users. And uplifted on a presumed pedestal as a divine being under a false god.

Though they had made one error, he was a Blood Angel. He was an Angel of the Emperor of Mankind, He who sits on the golden throne, the true protector of Humanity. He was not an angel of Brimnir and never will be.

_Never._

"Angel Hamael? Are you all right?" Siesta spoke, breaking off mid-motion of scrubbing a tough stain, and looked up at him with curiosity-tinted eyes.

He turned his attention back to her, chiding himself for his lapse of attention. He had focused too much on his speculations, who knows what he might have missed. "I apologize, I have been… in thought."

"Sorry, I think it's about my turn to ask you something. But you seemed to be… vacant."

"There is no need to apologize. Speak. If I can answer, I will, but it depends." Hamael spoke softly, but it came out like a simmering rumble through his vox-grate. It would be unfair if he persisted in asking, and it was her long, overdue turn. The answers pending the limits of discretion and secrecy, of course. Much can be answered, but more must stay concealed.

She paused in her work, "What is heaven like? Is it beautiful? And what was the thing you fought, is it a demon like what everyone has been saying?... and what about Brimir?"

This was a tricky one. He could be honest, tell her of his actual origin and the truth of not knowing Brimnir. That he was an angel in only the figurative sense, judging from the description Louise gave him: a being with two wings. The divinity being of another question. Though that would also play as a reason for him to not do so. She was a feudal primitive. The truth could be more detrimental than positive. Like a bolter round in an ork's chest, it would shatter her world's view and her beliefs. Quite also bringing some unneeded attention unto him and his… charge. He did not know how this world's religion would play out here, if it was even unified at all, but he had his suspicions that it would be like a certain ministorum.

Quite a conundrum. Perhaps a half-truth.

"Heaven…" Hamael paused in thought on what heaven was, then he reminisced of the one place he loved the most, the Arx Angelicum back on Baal, his home: Its vast array of murals, tapestries and effigies that lined its hallow halls and ancient chambers. The majesty and wonders within made by Blood Angels from long-forgotten times. Then the Dome of Angels in its full splendour and white, polished marble and gold or the twin towers that touched the clouds like unsurmountable peaks. He missed it.

"...is not where I live. For I am not the angels you think of, not that variety at least. My home lies within the Arx Angelicum, home of the Blood Angels, my brothers… my family. With halls of marble, gold and stained glass, rich in history and beauty. The legacy and tales of over ten millennia buried within the sands and stones. Representations of heroes, both new and old, occupy its sacred halls, wrought by the hands of my living and ancient brothers. I believe that if you were to see it, you would agree that it would be heaven-like. Though I have not been back for a while, I will admit."

"Then why not? Surely you should be able to," Siesta asked. "I may visit my family every few months for a few days. But you're an angel, you could just fly home."

That almost gave him a chuckle. What a childish, yet innocent, notion from a young mortal.

"I cannot. Because of my duties," he explained slowly. "Because of the Tyranids, that which you call the 'demon'. They are a ravenous, monstrous race, seeking to fill an unquenchable hunger, consuming all who lay in its path. We went to stop them under the command of Lord Dante, my chapter master, leader of the Blood Angels. Then I fell to the one which I had slain, only to be saved. And then given a task to serve a child."

"A child? You mean Louise?" she looked a bit confused. Perhaps overwhelmed with the information, Hamael presumed, or the lack of context with which to relate to. It doesn't matter. It was not confidential information, and it was true to a large degree. He also hoped that she had not noticed the lapse of an answer for one of her questions.

"Indeed, she has summoned me to be her... familiar. And I, in turn, swore to protect and teach her," Hamael bit out a reply. It left a distaste in his mouth like he had eaten gravel, or drank rancid, putrid blood.

"She's quite well known around here," Siesta commented, putting a soapy finger on her chin in thought, "Though most of it is not… nice, so to say. And the messes she makes gives the cleaning servants a small nightmare sometimes. You seem tentative about her."

"I begrudgingly accept this task but my feelings have little in regards to my duty. But, do say—" Before Hamael could inquire more into his charges reputation, a symbol on his display flashes in rapid succession, alerting him to the diminishing—already low—energy stores of his power cells. The outlook wasn't pretty. His suit's cogitator counted down the few hours remaining on the solar batteries, if he continued at the current levels of expenditure, powering only his auspex and vital systems.

He contemplated reactivating his suit's fuel reactors, bringing his systems to full life and recharging his batteries, but held off on doing so. There was no chance of resupply, though the pack should be good for months, if not years. He was still cut off from any Imperial presence and wary of needless usage. And he was unaware of the full extent of damages done towards the power pack, at least until further inspection could be done. Which left him the option of bearing the full weight of the armour once it became devoid completely of power. Not a gruelling task, so to say, it would be the equal of wearing a suit of plate, albeit more cumbersome. But it was still bearable.

As he was about to silence the alarm, making a note to inquire about a sunny location in the coming dawn. He saw something reappear on his Auspex, a minuscule dot that flickered in and out. It was alive. It was moving… and he knew it had been following him for some time or at least tried to. Now they were much closer. "Forgive me, Siesta, urgent matters have… shown up. Please take care of mas—Miss Valliere's clothes. I owe you a small favour for this and I shall answer your questions at a later date. Emperor guides you," Hamael spoke, bowing his head before stepping towards a shadowy corner.

Siesta looked up again to give a curt nod and reply but stopped halfway. Her eyes pausing at where Hamael once was, an empty wall and some scuffed gravel the only sign of his missing presence. "Emperor… guide you?"

* * *

"Are you sure you saw it?" Kirche, or Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt Zerbst in more formal terms, whispered. Although with the near-silence it was as audible as a shout in an empty auditorium.

"Yes. Over there." Tabitha tilted her staff towards the distant courtyard.

Kirche and Tabitha were on a mission, or at least Kirche was. And it could be considered more of idle curiosity, to be honest, with Tabitha as a guide to her goal.

To see if Louise had summoned an Angel; to know if it was alive or dead. She had either hidden him, which was especially unlikely knowing her personality, or her familiar, the angel, had been killed. And judging by what she saw, it stood a good chance of being true.

At least until Kirche had spotted him in the dead of night on one of her nightly forays. The angel gazing out a window, lost in thought. Then she went and brought Tabitha, if only for support and that her room was on the way here. She clearly remembered how the summoning ceremony went, especially with Louise, or what everybody else referred to her as: the Zero. But, recently, she gained a much newer and unforgiving title: the Death Summoner, and then the harshest: Angel Slayer.

Kirche could recall the following day as easily as she crept through the grass—an unnecessary action due to Tabitha casting silencing magic earlier. It was… bizarre and unnerving to see. No one spoke to Louise. No one acknowledged her, besides slight glances from the corner of their eyes. Whereas before they would at least be aware of her existence, needling with slight insults and jabs or mocking laughter at her efforts. Now after she had supposedly killed a divine being, it was as if a curtain had fallen upon her existence. A taboo that left only the hushed whispers to stab into her. Even the Academy staff had kept quiet, though probably out of surprise or uncertainty.

She had seen Louise's face. How her eyes, strong and stubborn, now carried a worried glint to them. The ego she had once proudly boasted, despite failing to upkeep, was now a flickering shadow. It was very… unValliere-like.

Kirche couldn't stand it. Louise was supposed to be stubborn. She was supposed to be prideful. She was a la Valliere. It was their entire reasoning of existence, the flare and oomph!

And it was also one of the key reasons for their rivalry, besides her being a Von Zerbst, which meant a literal blood-rivalry with the Vallieres anyways. It was a feud where one cannot lose to the other, and she found it immensely entertaining. To have her spiral up like a bonfire, her remarks and slight insults acting as fuel, and to see it rage against her and others in a bright, and messy, blaze. And despite the somewhat antagonistic nature of her actions, she cared for Louise.

Now Louise was a flickering ember.

Under the bright moonlight, she could make out where Tabitha was leading her towards: A laundry courtyard, past the main building of the academy, hidden from plain view by a large, vibrant garden. Oversized decorative hedges and fields of flowers blocked the image of servants washing laundry, though all should've been sleeping by now.

Kirche stepped onto the gravel path soundlessly, Tabitha following closely behind her, emotionless face the same as ever. Both walking together beneath the towering shrubbery, clouded moonlight making them seem more unnatural now. Once artistic, and sometimes tasteless, pieces of art now seemed hostile and dark. It was soundless, missing the noises of life and activity.

What would an angel be doing here, here of all places, Kirche thought to herself. She eyed the darkened trees, the shadows seemingly stretching out towards her on their silent journey. Surely an angel would prefer a more… holy place. Or at least more light.

As she was about to turn towards the subtly, hidden path that would lead towards the entrance to the yard, Tabitha grabbed Kirche by the shoulder causing her to turn around in surprise.

"Someone's watching," Tabitha said with an emotionless tone. She glanced around slowly, trying to spot the person, freehand grasping onto her staff with a hard grip.

Kirche gave a look of surprise then placed her hand on her wand, ready to whip it out in a moment's notice. "Where? Who is it?" she whispered to Tabitha.

"Don't know."

"Then how do you know that someone is watching?"

"Because she is correct," a voice spoke out, it sounded barely human, more artificial, if it was a thing, but it was strong and Kirche could feel her ears vibrating. It came from around them, never in one place or one direction, and she darted her head around to search. She saw nothing. "I am surprised. To see juves, children, being able to notice me so soon." Then it grumbled, "I must be losing my edge."

"Who said that? Come out! I am Kirche the Ardent, and I demand that you come out here." She flicked her wand out in the open, banishing her growing unease, and swept it over the looming shadows and shrubbery.

Tabitha, holding onto her staff, stood by her side. her face expression-free but her eyes held a tinge of alarm dwelled within the deep, still blue.

"Demand? Who are you to demand of me?" it asked. "If anything, I should demand of you. Why do you seek me? Do not think you have not been noticed, I've been keeping track of you. At first I thought it was a mere coincidence but now I stand corrected."

Kirche paused for a moment, her mind racing. Had she found Louise's angel? He, or it, wasn't angel-like. His voice was too harsh, deep and crass like a man speaking within a heavy helm. This was not what she imagined. Where were the heavenly tones of a soothing, silky voice? "Are you the Angel?" she asked warily.

"I am and I am not. The title which you refer to me as is one that is both accurate and inaccurate, but that was not what I wanted to know." A monstrous, humanoid figure emerged from the depths of a shrub. It towered over both of them. And as one, Kirche and Tabitha raised their respective magical focuses at it with tense anticipation before lowering unknowingly.

When the figure showed himself, the clouded moonlight became clear again as if signalled, bathing the entire field with its luminous glow. Dark shadows melted away to illuminate damaged, majestic, golden armour and wing motifs, an open crack on its broad chest revealing healing, pink flesh and folded wings on its back. A mask of a man, expression set in a roaring challenge, made of pure gold with obsidian eyes and dark tubes extending from his cheeks, was superimposed where a face would've been. And a tear-drop ruby, so large and blood-red, that she deemed it to be worth a fortune, enough to live in sheer luxury for decades.

He, or it, stared at them, clashing with their surprised and shocked looks. And he stopped before both of them, mere feet away, and Kirche—one of the tallest students in her year, or perhaps the school—had never felt so small and worthless before.

So this was what it felt like to be Louise-sized, she thought, her jaws ajar. Though she couldn't help but be mesmerized with the sight.

"You seek an angel. Now, one has appeared. Speak. I am curious as to why you seek me. Why have you slinked in the shadows like a rodent to do so?" he demanded.

The awe and surprise Kirche had was washed away by the insult. "I do not slink like a rat," she snapped back.

"True. Rats would at least try to hide," Hamael countered, before lowering his voice. What was once a boom lowered to a rumbling that was almost reminiscent of a building thunderstorm. "Now lower your sticks, I doubt you could poke through ceramite, and if I meant you harm… you would be dead. Now tell me, Kirche The Ardent, what it is that you seek and why?"

What did she want to ask, Kirche had no reply. She spent a few seconds pondering, what should she ask? Should she see if said person was an actual angel, and not a commoner wearing fanciful, yet elaborate, oversized armour—though no one grew that _big, _no golem capable of speech, and she doubted Valliere could afford a ruby that large—or perhaps why he was walking around at night. All were good questions, she supposed. Just whether or not it was the right one was the question.

"... Who?" Tabitha asked first, much to Kirche's surprise and chagrin.

She mumbled in annoyance. "He was asking me."

There was another slight pause, he stood in place before he spoke. "Who, as in who am I? I am Hamael. Unless you are asking me who or whom I belong to, then I am a Blood Angel of the ninth legion, Sanguinary Guard, warrior of the Emperor and currently… the familiar and protector of Louise de la Valliere," he answered bluntly, looking directly at Tabitha. "Was that your question?"

Tabitha gave a slight nod, her face as passive as ever.

"Now, who are you? Your friend has given me hers but not yours," he continued.

"Tabitha. Student."

"Hmm, not much of a speaker?" Hamael asked then Tabitha gave another nod. Hamael turned towards Kirche. "I can assume you are a student here as well, Kirche The Ardent"

"Yes, and my full title is Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt Zerbst," she recollected herself, then gave a correction, forcing a sly wink, "though you could just call me Kirche." She had expected the angel to say something in reply, though it was like throwing water at a wall. Hamael continued to keep his impassive stance against them, still as a statue.

Then he gave a slight nod, tilting his head ever so slightly down. "Very well, Kirche. Now what did you want from me?"

It took a few moments to recall her main goal, now a bit wary of his nature and wanting verification, she decided to ask a question of her own. "Are you actually Louise's familiar?"

"I had sworn an oath to protect and teach her_. _So the answer is… _yes_. You are her fellow acquaintances?" Hamael answered, a tinge of annoyance laced within.

That surprised Kirche a bit. Could angels even feel annoyance? Were they not supposed to be emotionless beings of light, although, the fresh wound disproved the last part. The scriptures being off the mark on that. However, now that she noticed, how had he survived that? Something that would have killed any man, and now he stood before her in near-perfect health. "Yes, you can say that we are the _best _of friends, almost like we think alike. Like… sisters." She spoke, confidently, though Louise would without a doubt say otherwise. But she wasn't here, was she?

"Hmm. Very well, Kirche and Tabitha, friends of Louise. I have a question for you and I expect an honest answer. Why did you follow me?"

"Curiosity," Kirche said. That was true.

If the angel had a working face, at least if she could glimpse underneath the golden mask, she would've thought the man had quirked an eyebrow; his head shifting upwards a bit as if amused.

"Curiosity. Curiosity is what made you so bold to stalk me? You, Kirche, are confident, that is most clear. However, curiosity without caution is a room without a door or roof, a folly."

"Well, it isn't every day that we see a dead familiar… or an angel walking around?" Kirche commented in a curious tone, hoping to get his attention.

"Dead?" Hamael focused on her. She felt a tingle on her neck from the intensity of the gaze, his black eyes narrowing on her like prey. He was certainly interested in what she just said, though whether that was good or bad is up for debate. "You. You two saw where I fell, did you not. You've seen everything. That is why you are interested in me?"

"The familiar ceremony," Tabitha spoke. "Everyone there. Saw you and that after the dust."

Kirche was about to agree with Tabitha when she noticed that Hamael seemed much closer now. She could hear faint sounds coming from his suit, a 'whirring' sound like a fine grindstone or a cog of a watch, and before she could ponder on the source, she was forced to look up at him, face-to-chin. He took another step, his giant foot sinking into the gravel pathway with a rocky crunch.

He spoke once more, but his tone changed, a intensity lay in it alongside relief. "Then you must've seen my weapons, my relics, and who has taken them? Where do they dare hide them from their true owner? _Tell me._"

* * *

'Cursed primitives mortals.' Hamael swore quietly. He stomped down the stone halls, his steps like miniature quakes. All need for subtlety felt lost for him now. The desire to be reunited with his belongings sung in his heart, it was like clean water to a Baalite salt-miner, and he craved it. Following the rough instructions given to him by the friends of his charge, Kirche and the quiet one, Tabitha. Hamael had rushed past them at a steady pace, ignoring their surprised squawks, as they had finally given the necessary information or assumptions towards a treasury of sorts.

And he entered the main building of this academy, moving into the elaborate halls and up the long spiralling stairs and past many empty classrooms.

He could feel and sense the place waking now. It's servants and menials began to stir for their morning duties as dawn began to rise. He had even stormed past a few, gasps of shock or surprise left in his wake as a golden blur.

A glimpse of something green flickered at the edges of his eye, just for a split second, when he passed the final corridor. But it was waved away, blurred by his focus and deemed as a distraction.

Turning his gaze back ahead as he moved up the torch-lit stairs, he made out what he could assume to be a pair of guards in their green uniforms standing by the only door on the floor, their spears raised and trembling as he raced towards them. Quite possibly in alarm by his arrival, the halls did little to muffle his quick advance and the light, although scant, revealed him fully now.

Hamael saw them as little to no threat. And he resolved to make sure they at least were unharmed, pending their cooperation.

He did owe this place favour for treating him, after all.

Hamel could hear one of them whisper to the other, though, it seemed to be more of a panicked shout now.

"Wha- what is it? Do… Do we run? What do we do?" breathed one of the guards.

"I don't know. I don't know," the other rasped loudly. It was clear to him that these men, these guards, were probably more used to shepherding truant students then dealing with charging Astartes. Though to their benefit, not many have had experience with a charging one either. At least only those who survived said encounters did. 'Maybe it's a prank? One of the students trying to scare us with a golem like last time?"

"It's c-coming this way."

"This is a hall. There is only one way to go!"

Hamael slowed down as he neared, skidding and leaving cracks in the stonework as he decelerated, his shock absorbers hissed like a viper. Coming to a stop, he gave a glare, raising his arms in a passive gesture and moved slowly towards the men. An action that caused them to balk even more so as the duo, fully realizing the size difference, saw him in much greater detail now; his face coming into full view.

One raised his spear in a pathetic attempt then lowered, debating on which was the correct decision before he kept it up. He shouted, stuttering his words, "H-h-hold it right there. This is academy grounds. A-and you, my l-lord or la-lady, are n—"

The other parroted that action of the first. He hissed at his partner in disguised alarm, "what student gets that big? It's a golem, that's what I think."

Hamael was not amused. "I am not a golem, nor am I a student. My name is Hamael, and I mean you no harm." He spoke, glaring at them, and gaining their undivided attention. Moving up to them until their spears were within an arms' reach of his cracked plate. "I have come to retrieve what does not belong to you, and I demand that you return them to me with due haste, for they are cherished relics of my chapter."

"I-I can't do that. No one is to go in without a key," the stuttering guard answered back, sternly. Or at least his best attempts to act so if his legs weren't shaking. "A-and no one is to enter this door beside the headmaster himself. Or someone that has the Headmasters p-permission."

"Then go get the key," Hamael ordered. "Or the headmaster, whatever works for you mortals. Be quick about it. My patience runs thin, though I have been lenient enough as of late."

"I don't take my orders from you… whatever you are." said the second man. He raised his spear, bracing it and ready to stab forward in a notice. "And nothing in here belongs to you. Everything in that room is the property of the Academy. So get the headmaster or show some proof, _golem._" A man with a spine for once... or at least trying to show that he did, Hamael thought. However, he wasn't in the mood.

"So… you admit to coveting my belongings?" Hamael warned.

"It's. Not. Yours. Until —" A sound of crunching metal caused the second guard to stop, and he stood stunned. Finding that the end of his spear was now encased within a golden fist. In a nonchalant manner, it slowly opened, like a blooming flower. A ball of mangled steel dropped down, swinging limply on strings of sinewy wood that was once the upper-shaft. The stuttering guard gulped at this display, eyes wider than saucers as he glimpsed between Hamael then at his own weapon.

Hamael spoke slowly, stressing the words that dripped with poison. "What did you say? I confess that I must have undergone a lapse of attention. _Please, repeat it for me._"

Empty silence answered him. Both guards, unable to voice what they wanted to speak, kept silent for fear of saying the wrong things and unleashing his wrath. Both stood stock still, only their panicked breaths showing any signs of life within them.

"Leave. Now. Mortals. Lest I show you my fury." Hamael hissed. A rage pulsated out from him, and the men shrunk lower beneath him like wilting paper.

They ran screaming.

* * *

Hamael came to a halt, stopping in front of an enormous iron door reinforced with wide bars, the thickness of a mans' limb. A large bolt ran across the middle, stabbed into holes within the arches of the door and deep into the thick walls of rock. And an iron padlock combined the assembly, binding them together and locking out whoever lacked the key.

It was easy to guess that this was the so-called treasury, obvious with the sheer amount of security. The directions given were correct, at least five floors up and with a large metal door, and if the guards weren't a dead giveaway also. Admirable in his opinion. A lot of security for a treasury in an academy, especially one of learning for juves.

Hamael scoffed at it. This would probably deter the local thieves or curious students, but it would be child's play for him. He put his hand over the padlock, his hand dwarfing it, and he clenched.

He wholly expected to hear the crunch of metal, the metallic shriek and then the snap, the sweet sound that would part the only obstacle between him and his weapon. However, instead, he found that the lock was still whole, his hand meeting resistance in place of destroyed metal. Moving it away, he gave a surprised look. The lock was still whole, almost undamaged besides a visible imprint.

Perhaps he had erred with his assessment of the local population. The fact that they had made something that could resist a space marines strength is interesting and this had some ramifications.

However, those didn't matter for now. What mattered was that he should try again. With more force.

With a snarl, Hamael clenched again, putting his full unaugmented strength into it. He felt the lock push against him, resisting against his attempts to crush it, and It felt like he grasping onto a compressed block of sand: The metal giving way for seconds before rehardening, it, in other words, felt alive to him. But, it was giving way as it should.

At least that was his thoughts until he found his hand forced open by a small expanding ball of energy emanating from the lock. Launching his hand behind him with such intensity that it would've dislocated any mortal's limb.

It was just minor discomfort for him.

Hamael closely scrutinized the lock, a misty haze covered it. His opticals revealed that it showed signs of greater, if not severe, damage, actual hand-prints in it from clenched superhuman fists. The metal distorted and bent, but still strong, to his annoyance. Then to his shock, the thing began to repair itself, albeit at an incredibly slow pace as if wounded.

"_Warpcraft." _Hamael declared to no one. It shouldn't surprise him, he was in a so-called academy of magic, though he had seen no signs that had implied such things. But, now, he couldn't help but seethe at it.

The lock mocked him, it belittled his attempts with its enchantments and curses, slowly hiding that his efforts were for naught.

He shall prove it wrong. The knowledge of Warpcraft and its intricacies is a field that requires years, if not decades or centuries, of study. And not to mention that it requires one to have the aptitude of a psyker and ability to survive it, like his Librarian brothers.

He lacked all of them. However, there was another way. One which had a moderate degree of success by his opinion and much experience in.

The way of force and brutality.

If the strength of a sole Astartes was not nearly enough, then, perhaps, one with his power armour fully activated should suffice.

He whispered a quick benediction to his armour, blessing it for a swift, and bountiful, activation. To be unharmed from his previous battles. To grant its service, and for forgiveness; at his crime of not soothing its wounds before such a task. And then, finally, the litany of activation.

A second passed in utter silence. He hoped that his action was enough to sate the spirit.

Then his ancient suit purred loudly in reply, the backpack microfusion reactor surged to life as the much weaker solar batteries deactivated. Main systems stuttered in his helm display, flickering with hazy static, before becoming whole again. Broken wires sparked with potent electricity before the suits safety rituals redirected the wasted motive-energy to other alternative sub-systems, bringing it to almost peak efficiency. The lenses of his death-mask, shaped into eyes and once ebony black, burned with a brilliant, vibrant emerald.

His machine-spirit, ever loyal and strong, was alive once more. It was fierce and it sang its beautiful song.

Then Hamael felt his right hand burn and sensed something was wrong. Something slammed into him. Not on a physical level, but on a mental one.

A marines armour, in the opinion and feelings of many marines, was a second skin, especially once interfaced with their Black Carapace: an under-layer of material inserted beneath the skin and the spinal cord, which allowed the user to obtain a direct interface with their suits system. To have something inanimate become like an extra nerve or muscle, a skin of metal and ceramite. Almost instinctively and quite literally as one. And when combined with the decades of experience, it would've been a near-facsimile to the actual thing.

But it lacked the actual feel, the senses of a biological organ or touch. His suit was able to register an impact, an awkward tilt of uneven ground and an array of various external stimuli. However, he wouldn't be able to feel any of it, beyond the scope of numbers, intuition and the built-in sensors.

Now it felt like it was quite literally part of him. A limb that was experiencing the sensation for the first time. It felt like he could feel it all, the knowledge pumping into him: The caress of cold air, the wearing of its damaged and fatigued parts, and the surge of power acting like the coursing flow of blood. It was as if he became intimate with armour, intertwined as one with the machine-spirit in a union akin to that of what he imagined to be similar to the Princeps of the Titan Legio; embracing him and whispering its pains, strengths and knowledge.

And despite all this, he did not feel fear. Fear was a non-existent emotion for Astartes, long ripped from them by hypno-indoctrination and gene-therapy. Instead, however, he felt unease, an uncomfortable welling within his psyche. But, as if by instinct, he knew that this was not a thing to fear.

It was actively trying to help him, Hamael thought. It must be a sign. A blessing or a gift from felt stronger. More alive.

Though, it felt alien.

Now with renewed vigour, he grasped the lock and squeezed once more. The surrounding area, illuminated by torches and burning pitch, shone now with much greater, golden illumination, a halo above his helmet crackled to life above momentarily.

Then the once-resistant object, giving scant opposition before fingers dug in deep, then parted into shrieking metal, shattering into wrecked scrap. He chucked the salvage behind and then forced his way into the unlocked doors, slamming with his shoulder, and walking inside.

The room was… underwhelming, and yet, bizarre. Unlit by torch, he had to work his way using his helm's night-sight. It must've been a decently sized room, for a human. But now the place was cramped, filled to the brim with material. He had expected to see metal weapons, crates of supplies and even what mortals would deem to be valuables; gems, gold or trinkets and archeo-tech of ancient origin- not that he expected the last bit.

However, instead, he saw only piles or racks lined with staves and staffs of strange designs: most were constructed of wood but some examples were of a metallic nature, bearing signs of ornate, and arcane, decoration. Tiny sticks of straightened wood, metals and jewels, similar in make to those on Kirche, lay in disorganized heaps atop of velvet pillows or soft cloth beside rows of cloaks and robes.

This room was almost anything but a treasury except in name.

If Hamael was not aware of the nature of this place, he would've assumed he had stumbled into a feral armoury of the most primitive society or a haphazard storage room. Though it was obvious, now, that these were all similar to the psychic-foci used by psykers. And he had half a mind to destroy all of them before he spotted what he had come looking for. Sitting at the furthest end of the room, placed atop a giant slab on a table in a haphazard manner, ill-bereft of its hallowed, ancient nature.

Slowly walking towards it, navigating the mess with surprising agility, he reached out for it. And he felt whole once more. Axe now clenched in hand again, the Angelsteel blade still immaculate and pristine as the day he first received it. A smudge of dried byzantine the only evidence of where it once was lodged in.

A weapon of the angels, brutal and efficient, yet elegant in design. It belayed a more primitive, primal, feel under its ornate nature, to cut and tear forward without pause.

Mag-clamping his sidearm, his inferno pistol, to his thigh, placed near where his axe had been. He noted that it was not a slab that his weapons were resting on, but rather, a strange, wooden chest: rectangular in shape, almost the length of his entire arm and about as wide. The thing was also out of place within the room, where a thin layer of dust coated most of the things here. This one bore a thick coating that hid its wooden make, only the disturbed portions where his weapon touched revealed the truth.

Curiosity had peaked his mind momentarily. It was in front of him, he just needed to raise the lid and see what lay inside. But before he could make a decision. Hamael heard someone or something enter the room, the rustling of grinding stone louder with the beat of heavy steps. Not the sound of a human, but something else entirely.

He spun around towards the noise, a misshapen, near-humanoid figure charged awkwardly at him; throwing racks and crates over, scattering their contents and crushing them underfoot in its frenzied rush. His helms vision revealed the true appearance of said _thing_. Broad, blocky shoulders and bulky flailing arms, thick like promethium drums, swung wildly like a wild flail. The skin resembled the stone and mortar of the nearby walls. It was like a piece of clay formed by a child trying to recreate a pseudo-dreadnought or a hulking figure.

Hamael knew that this was no living thing anyways. There was no heat. No signs of technology. Its movement unnatural and forced, like a puppet on strings. It was a servitor of rock and earth that barreled at him, an object of magic, he thought. And it was obvious that it bore no friendly attention.

Perhaps it was most likely a security device, but he had no time to postulate.

The automaton swung its fist at him as it neared, an oversized hunk of granite that whistled in the air. He swerved to the side easily, dodging the clumsy assault. It smashed mere inches from the wall, hitting a haze of air that cushioned the impact, and its arm bounced backwards in reply.

Hamael snarled loudly at the thing, though surprised by this turn of events. He was all but willing to take advantage of its momentary weakness. His axe bit forward at it. Bright light covered the head and blurred. The field did its job as it melted into earthen limbs, an arm dropped to the ground in response.

The thing gave no cry of pain, cementing his belief in its nature, and he kicked out to push it away from him in the cramped room.

Armoured legs crushed into its rocky chest, slamming into it with the force of a sledgehammer, puncturing through it instead of the intended goal. The earthen material morphed around his leg, holding it fast in a vice-like clamp, and catching him by surprise. Then it twisted to its left with its entire frame, hoping to hurl him to the side or flip him over

Or at least it tried too.

It strained to move the space marine's bulk, twitching in heavy pulls of no use. Then it surged in the opposite direction, using the momentum to swing its sole arm towards Hamaels head.

Hamael responded back with his own.

A roar exiting his throat, coming in volume like a rocket engine alongside his right punch. Nature and magic collided with power armour and superhuman strength. Nature was found wanting, shattering into broken fragments and a spray of dust that coated the room. Then he ripped downward with his trapped leg, actuators hissing like a viper, tearing free of his earthy trap and shattering its waist and groin. Another punch was launched as it jerked back from the violent disembowelment, upper-cutting it upwards.

The creature flew back, slamming into the sidewall, tearing down what little racks remained and scattering its contents in a rain of shards. It stumbled up again in defiance of its injuries: the gaps and wounds closing with impossible speed, the earthen flesh flowing like water. The stump of its arm growing back into its malformed, sledgehammer shape, albeit at a much slower rate.

Hamael felt a tinge of excitement at such a foe, then it was disdain. Acidic spit pooled before he swallowed, the burn coursing down his throat. There was no honour in fighting an automaton, and with its clumsy, predictable nature. It was a servitor in all but name: a poor quality one, if he had to compare.

In fact, if any, he was in the wrong. His intrusion into this… _treasury_ had probably activated it.

Then he thought of another thing, sprouting in his mind.

Something felt off to him now. If it was a security measure, why had the guards not used it earlier? This servitor, this golem, was trying hard to push him away from the chest. Was there something in it that it wanted none to know about? Or was it protecting it?

In any case, the pseudo-servitor began to move again. It took step after step, unyielding in its unthinking nature. His attacks proved to be negligible against the writhing earthen muscle, its injuries non-existent in mere moments.

The bane of fighting something that never lived and never could. He had experience with similar entities, the daemons of the warp and those possessed by them. And there was one way to disrupt their hold of existence.

The method was simple: To utterly destroy the body, to rend it to such a degree that its hold on reality was untenable.

And he had a ready solution.

Raising his Inferno pistol towards his advancing target. His masks machine-spirit communing with its brother spirit, notifying him that its will be his, its rage ready to be dispensed. The golden halo above his head crackled to life, burning bright against the darkness and in anger.

"Feel His wrath!" Hamael hissed.

Then with a squeeze of a finger. The angel brought his wrath into existence and unleashed the heat of a burning star.

* * *

Longueville- or as known by a much different alias to a few- made a mistake.

Correction. She had made an incredibly big mistake.

Instinctively yelping and jumping back from the instant wave of searing, heated air and molten wall that sprayed out near her. The pulsating inferno reddened her pale skin and curled her hair in a near flash. Her uniform, once clean for another days' work, was now crisping as she fled further away from her original spot in a near-panic.

Swishing her wand out and quickly casting a cooling spell on herself, the rush of cold relief halting the burnt sensation that lingered like a taint. The residual pain still remained but it was manageable, if not still noticeable in a visual and physical manner. She took a breath and then regretted it as the tang of smoke and burning fabric tasted heavy in the air, coating her throat and lungs.

And then her heart ached, her vanished connection with her earth golem put aside. It was pointless to try that. What was she to control when there was nothing remaining?

Something else took a much higher precedent

The walls of the treasury, once protected by the enchantment of a potent square mage- something she found out the hard way- had melted into lava and ashes. A shimmer of air, the smallest of flickering sparks, and then a wave of hissing fire.

Then she saw that all was gone: what was left of the treasury and it's unbroken contents from the melee… and perhaps even_ that_.

Like the fires of perdition had been brought to life, the fury of hell itself unleashed into reality. It horrified her. This was the fury of an angel, a demigod on earth unleashed… and she attacked it, at least, by proxy.

Again, it might've been a mistake to have assumed that a golem would've distracted, or at the very least forced aside the thing so she could rush and grab what was in front of him. It was the only thing that fit the description, her goal just out of hands reach.

So close, yet so far. A fat apple that hung on the lowest branch for a starving man, and barely out of reach. She swallowed to moisten her parched throat.

With the angel having cleared the major obstruction, removed the guards- who ran past her in stark terror- and the teacher on duty having slacked off as usual. Not that it was a surprise that they would've done so.

No one would ever expect anyone to successfully break-in past the enchantments after all, not without at least wasting valuable time or alerting the entire school.

That thought had not even fazed the angel, besides the surprisingly brute entry. It was almost akin to an unlocked door to him.

And then the angel had even stumbled upon it, by sheer accident of all things… she thinks. Fortunately, being the ever-cautious person, she had decided to use a golem, formed from the nearby walls and floor and sent it in. A good decision instead of going herself and donning her true persona.

It proved to be a _great_ decision.

Her face paled at the actual consequences if she had done otherwise, looking at the dripping, liquid wall down the hall as the example. How it bubbled and blackened, the distorted air of intense heat and black smoke. How little of it remained. And how little of her would've been left also if she had just been nearer by a couple of feet.

Footsteps echoed out, coming back from the way she fled. Then she saw the angel emerge from the burning fog. A giant of gold emerging from the black clouds and red blaze as of emerging from the depths of hell.

And he was different now, not that it may have been a good thing. When he had rushed past her, she recalled darkened orbs of black for eyes. Now she can see them vividly despite the distance. They now burned with a piercing, emerald green hue. A burning halo of pure ethereal-like gold hovering behind his golden head, like the rays of a rising sun, outshone the surging fire and remaining torches. With a burning blue axe of living blue-thunder and steel in hand, his gun-like wand in the other. Both were at the ready, as if in anticipation of another attack.

Not that one would come, at least not from her. She motioned to run until she felt something and looked back once more.

The angel turned his eyes on her. She swore they narrowed for a split second, and fear crawled over her as he approached, step by step, with a backdrop of fire and smoke and _light._

"Oh shit."

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